


One for Sorrow, Two for Luck

by byebyebluejay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Character, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Nausea, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 61,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyebluejay/pseuds/byebyebluejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran was once a decorated colonel in the army. One stolen Foxhound and an IED later, he was tossed out in disgrace. With a tarnished record and limited skill set, he finds a job with the world's best consulting criminal. They murder, they kiss, they plot, and they go home happy. Or at least, they should. But Sebastian Moran has never been a very lucky man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the prologue is in first person, so if that's not your steeze, don't worry. It's third person, past tense starting the first real chapter.

The front door unlatches then opens, almost silent. As expected as that is, my heart still drops. I hear hard-soled shoes clicking through the entryway without a lick of hesitation, so certain of the layout of the house. Even if I wasn’t expecting him, that was enough of an indication. Asking ‘how’ would be foolish. Jim can know whatever he needs to know under the spread of his network. It would have been easy to find the floor plans, or to have them made for him by one of his many sets of eyes around the city. Maybe Jim had even toured my childhood home himself. It’s well within the realm of possibility. 

I’m going to die. From the beginning of my work with Jim, that fact was concrete in my mind, but still I’m taking it like a punch to the gut now. The immediacy is nauseating. I’m going to die. At least I’m going to have the rare honour of being killed by the man himself. As clear-headed and calm as I usually am, barely-contained panic buzzes like static behind my eyes, survival instinct screaming at me to run, to fight. But I know running is pointless, and I find myself without a gun. Even if I had one, I wouldn’t have been able to use it. I knew some stubborn part of me would not be able to level the barrel of a gun at Jim, even if it would cost me my life. 

The footsteps are drawing nearer down the hall, and pause a moment before the closed door. Why had I closed it? It seems so stupid now, that tiny, futile scrabble for defence. Pathetic, really. There is barely a breath before it too is opened, and my eyes lock with the chilly gaze of the world’s best consulting criminal. 

“Jim.” 

“Moran…” Usually the use of my last name alone would have been a signal to me that Jim was displeased, but given the gun casually hanging in Jim’s hand, the extra internal cringe is redundant, “I’m very, very disappointed. I expected better of you. Betrayal doesn’t suit you.”

I suck in a breath, then swallow forcibly, trying to wet my tongue enough to form a coherent sentence. It feels like a damp cotton ball, clinging sticky to the roof of my mouth. “It wasn’t betrayal.”

“Oh no?” Jim’s dark brows arch upward in pseudo-surprise, mouth opening slightly, all comedic exaggeration. In other circumstances I might roll my eyes, but this time I get the effect. My shoulder muscles tug back. 

“This wasn’t about betraying you. I didn't mean-- I love him, Jim. He-- Let me explain—“Appeals to emotion or patience are pointless. Jim’s mouth tugs up in an ugly snarl before he lazily raises the gun. I see something flicker across his face, or at least I imagine I do: a softer light in those black eyes. It’s gone in the next moment, replaced by a frown that screams magic-trick sympathy as he shakes his head. The fear drains out of me. The static clears. My survival instinct just gave up. I know that look. I’m fucked. 

“It’s a shame I’m going to have to get my hands dirty, but I suppose I owe you that much... It’s a shame I’m going to have to ruin that pretty face, too. Oh well. I just can’t allow turncoats…” Jim raises his arm, and I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. Everything has fallen so far.


	2. Broken Toy Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian is at rock bottom and bored out of his skull. Poor Tiger.

The Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester was a prison masquerading as a rehabilitation facility, and it combined everything Sebastian despised about the army and England within four well-ordered walls. It wasn’t the continued regime of harsh physical labour, the awake and asleep with the sun schedule, or even the humdrum lack of autonomy. No—that much Sebastian enjoyed. It was the combination of oppressive boredom and miserable living conditions that did him in. Not even an illusion of privacy to take refuge in. 

His rank had ceased to matter after confessing guilty at a court martial that had resulted in his five-year confinement and dishonourable discharge. No more allowances were made for him. He was crammed into a cell with seven other disgraced soldiers of varying ranks, all of whom smirked at his colonel’s uniform marked by a fresh red badge. It should have inspired caution, but more than anything else just marked him a fuck-up. As physically intimidating as he was, Sebastian had given up inspiring any sort of fear or respect in the other prisoners. There was no one worth impressing here, and more than anything else, Sebastian just wanted to compress years of punishment into seconds of memory; make the boredom serve him.

He did his work. He took the required classes to prepare him to enter the workforce, bizarre as it was that someone with a master’s degree in English from Oxford was being trained as a plumber. He passed every room inspection. He ate tepid plates of mushy peas and mashed potatoes without comment and without engaging in conversation with the other inmates. He went to therapy, and didn’t try to argue when the neat woman explained to him the irrational and self-destructive nature of his reckless behaviour in Afghanistan, talked with him about PTSD, or tried to prepare him for civilian life while all the while, in all respects but actual duty, he was still living as a soldier. He just nodded and replied in polite, reserved phrases. He was a model prisoner. Five years passed unmarked by anything but healing scars, the fading of his tan, and an occasional twinge in his knee that reminded him as much as any red badge or sullied record that he had made a mistake. Not in doing what he had done—he had made the right choice—but in getting caught. He left the MCTC with nothing more than the clothes on his back and plumber certification. No source of income, no home he could return to, and no fucking clue what he was going to do with himself. When the same had been true fifteen years ago he had joined the army. Now, his options were less clear. 

Late October, and he was living on the last of his chewed-up savings in a shitty East End flat. It was the sort of place only people who had no other option lived: paper thin walls, faulty utilities, and three small, cramped rooms. It was the cheapest arrangement Sebastian could find that he considered liveable, though even calling it that would be generous. He owned no furniture, having gone straight from furnished student flats during his university days to military barracks, so he slept on an air mattress shoved into the corner of the bedroom and lived out of his suitcase, washing his clothes weekly at a launderette three blocks away. Living like this long-term would be impossible. Three months and he would be flat on his arse in the streets, broke and shit out of luck. Given that, he probably should have been scouring London for anyone who would give work to an unstable army veteran, chucked out by the very industry that manufactured and weaponized instability. The worst thing he could do was pick up the drinking habit that he had ditched ten years ago and start gambling again, but no one had ever accused Sebastian Moran of acting in self-interest. 

Sebastian sat cozied up to the boiler in Tully’s like he did four days a week, Gore-Tex jacket pulled tight around him, nursing a gin that tasted like kerosene. Even with the constant source of warmth at his back, the place was still a fucking freezer, and he wasn’t drunk enough to ignore it yet. He could pretend that this place offered some form of escape beyond the booze—gave him the chance to get out of the house—but really it was the bar equivalent of his flat: sleazy, smoky, and with a constant odour of piss that could be attributed to the beer, the draft coming in from the alley outside, the other patrons, or all three, but it was dirt cheap. That was all he could expect from the place. It was a minimally remodelled basement, guttering water heater in the corner and all. Sebastian would bet his life the public health officials would keel over if the place was ever brought to their attention. Still, it was the only bar he could afford, and watching the other patrons gave him a wicked rush of schadenfreude that he wouldn’t get anywhere else.

He never spoke to any of them, not if he could avoid it, but still, regular that he was, he got to know the fraction of their lives they spent here. Ms. Tabby, with her intense odour of cat urine and spoiled milk, was crammed into the opposite corner, eyes bloodshot, fingers trembling around her glass of crème de menthe. And there was Weasel, eaten down to skin and bones except for his protruding beer belly, constantly snivelling over his cell phone as he guzzled down pale yellow ale, sitting at the banged-up bar. Meatbag was already wasted at 20:00, his thick bulk hunkered down over a wobbly plastic table, and for the life of him, Sebastian couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. 

Strange to think that he had been the one to draw funny glances at first among this lot. As far as his professional and private life was concerned, he was a wreck who belonged in the reject bin as much as any of them, but that didn’t change the fact that everything about Sebastian still screamed soldier, from his haircut to his standard-issue boots. He didn’t look like the sort of person who should be skulking around a place like Tully’s on a Tuesday night. But three weeks in and he had faded into the wallpaper—they’d acclimatized to him. Fridays, the only day when Tully’s entertained more than four or five serious patrons, Sebastian broke up the usual monotony of sitting and drinking crappy gin with poker and blackjack, usually coming away with just enough to pay for the booze he drank. The rest of the time, the alcohol-induced cheer barely made up for the tedium. He needed to find a better haunt, occupied by a more interesting sort of low-life. A bar fight might do him some good.

The door squealed open and Sebastian glanced up. A man that looked like Meatbag’s long-lost brother moved into the room, though he was far too graceful for his bulk. His clothing would have helped him blend in at Debenhams, which—far more than his size—put him at odds with the rest of Tully’s patrons. The hair on the back of Sebastian’s neck prickled. Wrong. Everything about this man felt very wrong. Behind the bar, Tully frowned. Weasel, though, seeming to feel the change in the energy of the room, finally managed to pry his eyes away from the screen of his phone to investigate the sound at the door, and when he did Sebastian watched the blood drain out of his face. There were no words exchanged. Meatbag 2.0 just made eye contact with Weasel, then turned and let the door close behind him. A shudder chased up Weasel’s spine as he got up suddenly, almost upsetting his beer as he grabbed his phone and headed towards the door. 

Whatever the hell that had been, it was bad news. Any reasonable, well-adjusted person would have stayed far away. Even Tully, who was less than well-adjusted, averted his eyes and kept his mouth shut. But, before he was even aware of his decision, Sebastian was on his feet. He had no affection for Weasel in the least, no urge to be a hero, no concept of what was going on or what he planned to do. But his pulse had rocketed, and he found himself moving for the door after the pair. Tully’s brows snapped together and he leaned forward over the bar.

“Hey! Soldier boy! What the fuck are you doing?” Sebastian shook his head but didn’t bother pausing. Hell if he knew. He was chasing an impulse. 

He pushed through the door, out into the damp air of the alley. The sound of their movement was just outside the mouth of the backstreet, and despite the fact he didn’t know what he wanted to get out of this, he sprinted for the sound. As he cleared the walls of the bordering buildings, his eyes snapped towards a white sedan idling on the street that Meatbag 2.0 was climbing into. Sebastian sprinted one more step forward, then stopped on the sidewalk, the holes in his non-plan becoming clear. He could make it to the car and wrench the door open, ask the man what his business was, but that seemed socially idiotic. Instead he just stood there stupidly, the fire drained out of him as the big man shot him a penetrating look before locking the car door. The driver—Sebastian hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face—pulled away from the curb. Last he saw of the car’s passengers was Weasel in profile, sitting stock-straight and staring at the back of the seat in front of him as the car drove past. Then he was left standing alone in the dark.

His reptilian brain was still rabid for the chase even if logical thought was slowly beginning to tamp down on it. His body still felt eager, thrumming with adrenaline and ready for a fight. Across the street, a flicker of movement or light caught his attention—but it was nothing. Just the turning of the security camera at the door of the pawn shop. Sebastian let out a slow breath, waiting for his heart-rate to soothe before turning to move down the street in the direction of the bus stop. The bar had lost all its appeal for the night.


	3. He Who Seeks Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets very drunk and receives a mysterious letter.

“Got to think about more than yourself when you start pulling shite like that.” 

Sebastian locked eyes with Tully from the door of the bar before shutting it behind him and moving to the counter, pulling out a creased bill from his wallet. He was really in no mood for a lecture from a man who served lukewarm booze from Aldi’s out of his basement to make his living. 

“Gin.”

“You hear me, soldier boy?” Tully pocketed the cash, moving to get a tumbler and pour a dose of the clear liquor into it, “I thought you were dead when you didn’t come back in last night.” Sebastian took the drink and started towards his usual spot in the back corner, in good view of the door. 

“Just going to ignore me like that? Go on, then. Don’t even bother showing a lick of concern.” Fingers tightening on the glass, Sebastian paused, annoyance buzzing behind his eyes. Something told him that Tully’s worry had a lot more to do with the potential loss of two customers in one night than it did with any sort of human sympathy, but if it would stop his yapping… 

“Well, you were wrong. Here I am. Not a scratch.” He turned, opening his arms and giving himself a once-over for demonstration. After fixing Tully with a pointed look he walked back to his usual booth and took a seat, but the bartender apparently hadn’t gotten the message that Sebastian was in no mood to chat—never mind the fact that this was the most he’d spoken in at least a week. 

“What did you want from those two anyway? What was the point of chasing after them like that? Just looking for trouble?” Sebastian shrugged again.

“Was just bored. Nothing better to do. Bugger off, Tully. Let me drink.” 

“My name’s not Tully,” As though Sebastian actually cared. Still, there was little better to focus on. He tossed back a mouthful of gin before surveying the bartender, “The bar is called Tully’s, but my name is Stephen. Stephen’s is a shite name for a bar. Tully is my dog.” 

“Sorry then, Steve. Shut it and let me drink.” Finally, the bartender seemed to get the message, snorting his distaste before moving back to his low stool to perch himself. Sebastian was fairly certain he murmured something like ‘antisocial arse’ under his breath. He needed to find a new bar. 

Sebastian made it back to his flat at 3:00, having been forced to take a miserable night bus. Still, he was drunk enough that it hardly mattered. He fumbled with his key at the door, managing to get it in on the third try and stumble into the frigid dark of his flat, kicking off his shoes. The coat stayed on—clearly the heat was out again. 

Flicking on the light in the main room, Sebastian opened the plastic wrapping of a half-eaten loaf of bread and dropped two pieces into the toaster, pressing down the leaver and then moving to pour himself a glass of water at the sink. His body felt heavy, his mind fuzzy. Aside from the hungry gnawing in his belly, little else seemed to matter. Even with the water and the food, Sebastian knew in the back of his mind that he was going to be in bad shape tomorrow. That, and he had spent ten quid on booze: money that would have been much better spent on groceries. He guzzled down the water before dropping the cup in the sink and dragging his eyes back out over the stark flat. The white walls. The stained beige carpets. The chintzy little IKEA table. And something else. A frown creased Sebastian’s forehead. There was an envelope on the table. Certainly that had not been there earlier today, had it? It was difficult to remember, but Sebastian could not recall getting his mail this morning. Maybe he had, and it had just slipped his mind. With a heavy gait, Sebastian moved out to the kitchen table, falling into the single chair as he grabbed the letter and opened it with unsteady fingers. The envelope was unmarked: no stamp, not even his address or name. With some effort, he started to read. 

‘Dear Sebastian,

You chased after one of my employees yesterday. Not to worry. I’m not upset. You didn’t do any harm. It’s just not the behaviour I expect from the ordinary people. You piqued my interest for a second. And then I couldn’t help but wonder what a military man like you did to end up where you are? Tully’s, Sebastian? Really? Even looking at the place is enough to turn my stomach. No matter. I can tell you’re living on a very tight budget. And the reason why, now that was interesting. I read all about your court martial. I liked the little dupe you played in Afghanistan. Terribly sorry your superiors weren’t more understanding. I won’t waste what talent you have like they did. 

You have skills and training I’m interested in. I have the money and direction you need. The job is demanding, both physically and emotionally, I have been told. The hours are long. I can’t allow you to quit. If you accept, be outside White Horse on Marlborough Ct (not Great Marlborough Street, mind you) in SoHo tomorrow sometime between 11:15 and 11:30. Someone will meet you there. Try to wear something inconspicuous. 

\--M’

It took several readings to get the gist of the letter, and even then it was confounding. It was difficult to piece together the events from yesterday in such a way that this letter made sense. By Sebastian’s estimation, it simply shouldn’t exist. It was an unaddressed letter he hadn’t brought in from a sender without a real name. Judging from the letter, all this ‘M’ would have to go on in tracking him down was his face and the knowledge that he frequented Tully’s. That Sebastian remembered, he had never actually exchanged names with anyone at the filthy little bar. At most whoever it was would have been able to guess he was ex-military, but that was it. There had been no one there to follow him home the evening Weasel got whisked away in that car, and if someone had found out where he lived today by following him home from the bar… Well, that wouldn’t make any sense. There was no way they could have written the letter. Some of the information wasn’t even stuff anyone could look up online if they knew his full name—in particular, the nature of his court martial. It was all making his head throb. 

The toast popped out of the toaster. With a dull grunt Sebastian pushed his chair back, moving back into the kitchen to grab the hot bread, eating it over the sink to catch the crumbs, dry. There was no butter or jam in the flat, but even if there was he probably wouldn’t have bothered. At this point, even the gnawing sense of hunger was bowing to the heaviness clouding his mind. He needed to sleep.


	4. Brunch with Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets inducted into Jim's web of crime.

Eight o’clock. Sebastian woke with a jolt, heart pounding, skin crawling with cold sweat and a splitting ache behind his temples. His body thrummed with a deep instinctive fear, but if he had been dreaming, Sebastian couldn’t remember any of it. Now, though… A wave of dizzy nausea almost knocked him back onto his elbows, and Sebastian had to stagger to his feet, making his way clumsily out into the bathroom to vomit. All gastric acid and gin. Absolutely vile. Stomach emptied, Sebastian moved to the sink to wash his mouth out with water, clean his face, and then drink from his hands. He needed more. More water, more sleep, an ibuprofen, an antacid... Straightening, Sebastian studied himself in the mirror, running his palm down the line of his jaw, rough with stubble. His eyes were red, the circles beneath them obvious, the rest of his skin unusually pale. Damn. He looked like shit. 

After taking a moment to weigh his options, he shuffled into the main part of the flat to search out some medicine. There would be no point in trying to fall asleep when he felt this awful. Head pounding with every step, eyes half-closed against the dim of the unlit house, he made his way into the kitchen cabinet where he stashed what meagre medical supplies he had beside his tea. He popped a few peppermint flavoured antacid tablets, feeling them start to melt chalky on his tongue before he managed to get them down, then emptied four ibuprofen pills into his hand. It was only when he turned to stick his head halfway into the sink to drink from the tap that Sebastian caught sight of that damned sheet of paper again. Tossing back the pills with a gulp of water, and then lapping up a few more mouthfuls, he finally turned off the tap and straightened, going to pick up the letter. 

His memory of reading it last night was vague, so it took another full read to remember anything other than how strange and confusing it had been. Even mostly sober it was confounding. And then there was the time… Sebastian glanced at the clock on the microwave and groaned. He could use another four hours of sleep, but if he was going to attend this thing, this meeting, whatever the hell it was, that wasn’t going to happen. And he was going to attend. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. If M said they could offer him a job that would interest him, then the mere fact that they had cared enough to write and deliver him a letter was good enough for Sebastian. After all, there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was going to snake drains for a living, but he really wasn’t keen on being evicted from the cheapest flats in London and having to find somewhere new to eke out a living. It would take thirty minutes to get to SoHo, and he’d leave an extra ten to find the right road, so he had a few hours left to make himself feel human.

An hour long nap, a shower, a cup of tea and three glasses of water later, Sebastian still felt like he had the flu and looked just as bad. But he was up and walking, and if whoever the hell M was cared about a hangover, they probably shouldn’t have sent Sebastian a letter in the first place. He put on the least stained and ratty of his t-shirts in an effort to comply with the request that he blend in, but still pulled on his military jacket before shuffling out the door to take the underground to Oxford Circus and seek out the meeting place. 

The wind was light but damp, and within seconds of stepping out of the sheltered tunnels of the station, the clinging cold was trying to work its way in past his jacket collar. Reminded once again how much easier life would be if he actually owned a smartphone, Sebastian pulled a dog-eared map booklet out of his pocket, thumbing through to the right neighbourhood and squinting down at the tight scrawl of streets, his head throbbing from the effort of focusing on the little letters. Great Marlborough Street he found easily enough, but he knew that wasn’t correct. Finding Marlborough Court, which turned out to be a narrow pedestrian walk between two rows of shops took some effort, and with some humiliation, Sebastian found it necessary to stick his head in three separate coffee shops to ask for directions to the White Horse like a tourist. 

It was only a few minutes before eleven thirty that Sebastian finally turned onto the right lane and spotted the golden lettering on the pub. White Horse. The place was running a moderate business and it would have been easy enough to slip in and find a table, but with a sudden squeeze of annoyance, Sebastian realized that even buying a pot of tea here would run through his food budget for the day. Sebastian had no clue who the hell he was looking for either, so if he moved away from the place, they might miss him, and he would not be able to flag them down. Gritting his teeth, he was about to turn away when a red-haired man he had never seen in his life waved an arm at him. 

“Alright, Sebastian? Over here. Nice to see you again, mate,” The man stood, clapping Sebastian on the back when the ex-colonel approached, doing his best to make the greeting seem natural despite his surprise, mute and stiff-jawed, “Damn, you smell like booze. They warned me you’d been hitting the bottle since you got back. Let me buy you breakfast.” The whole situation felt surreal, but Sebastian grinned and managed to choke out a greeting, “Yeah. Been a while. Thanks.” Before sitting down and surveying the other man. If he hadn’t known better, this man would have seemed utterly guileless, with the broad grin and blank eyes and freckles. 

“So, how has life been treating you?” The red-haired man asked. Sebastian was unsure whether this was a test or just an act for the sake of either the other patrons or the waiter who had caught sight of them and was starting over. If it was a test, a test of what? His potential employer already knew just how wretched his life had become. Sebastian shrugged, erring on the side of conservatism. He didn’t want to show all his cards—admit just how desperate his situation was. 

“It’s tough, you know. Coming back from that. No one you can ask for help. Sullied record. But I press on,” He said, managing a queasy smile for the waiter when the man came up to the table to get their drink orders. “Whatever you like,” Ginger reassured him in a soft voice, as though he was concerned for Sebastian’s pride. He ordered tea. Ginger got coffee. Sipping their beverages half a minute later, Ginger wet his lips before speaking again. 

“M’s been asking about you. Wanted to find out if you needed a job. You know he’s got that… business venture thing he’s always prattling on about. It’s a night shift. Manual labour. But the pay’s solid, according to his other employees. Forty thousand a year. And of course, you get opportunities for improvement. You’re his friend. Of a sort. You know how he is. Ehm… Can you manage to lift like… thirty kilos repetitively? He was asking. Apparently that’s something you need to do.” Ginger’s voice was too animated. It crackled through his throbbing headache with no fidelity, making it difficult for him to understand a word coming out of his mouth. Sebastian struggled to pay attention and absorb the information, but mostly just blinked down at his cup of tea, putting forth all the effort he could muster into occasionally lifting his head and nodding. The question took him by surprise. The first time he tried to answer, his voice got caught in his throat, and he had to cough dryly. Ginger winced.

“Sorry, hangover. Yeah, I can.” One glance at the menu made his stomach turn, and he fought the sudden urge to retch. The waiter came back around. Sebastian wished he could take full advantage of the other man’s wallet, but as it was, the thought of a full breakfast was nauseating. He ordered toast, despite Ginger’s prodding to get more. Ginger got beans on toast and poached eggs. He had to consciously avoid making eye contact with the glossy food, but even so the smell was enough to prod him towards gagging, and he all but buried his nose in his teacup. Ginger’s façade cracked for a moment as the corner of his mouth turned up in an unsympathetic smile. Bastard. 

“So are you interested, then? You’d start tomorrow. Obviously M would not like you drinking on the job. But you know how he is.” That fast? Sebastian’s head was still reeling from the letter. Of course, he had never been allowed to parse the thing sober, and he was still in a rough patch now, but that in itself said something about how quickly this was progressing. Still, it wasn’t like he had a lot of options. If something was worth doing, it was worth overdoing, and knowing full well that he would never be hired for any sort of academic work with his record already scratched up by charges of destruction of government property and multiple counts of manslaughter, Sebastian was not planning on shuffling off to be a good little blue-collar worker. He had skills, and plumbing didn’t cut the top ten. If the government didn’t want them anymore, then someone else would, and really, it was no great leap. He had no vested interest in the war. How was killing poorly connected or criminal and potentially dangerous individuals abroad different from doing the same in his backyard? He didn’t buy the ‘queen and country’ line. 

“Yeah. Tell M I’m interested,” He said after a brief pause, in which he swallowed thickly for reasons that had nothing to do with the thought of diving headfirst into what seemed to be some sort of criminal organization, and everything to do with the way those damn eggs smelled, “Tell him I said thanks.”

“Sure,” Ginger answered without skipping a beat, “Hey. I know you haven’t had a phone since Afghanistan. M told me to give you a company phone if you took the job.” The man fished into his pocket for a few seconds before drawing out a mobile and a charger, handing them to Sebastian. “They send hours and information out over the phone periodically. Plus, I worry about you, mate. Wonder if you’re still alive. So keep it on you.” Sebastian nodded. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” He looked down at the slick phone in his hand; its wide, black screen and clean lines. Not a single scratch. It was brand new, and now by far the most valuable thing he owned. 

“Oh, and just so you know,” The man said through a mouthful of toast and beans, “The company numbers and employee’s manual and all that are already on the phone. If I were you, I’d look them over before tomorrow. M’s always been a hard-arse for rules, and old friend or no, I’m pretty sure he’ll dump you in a heartbeat if you fuck up.” The man sounded like a lovely boss, though honestly, if M was just a stickler for rules and a fan of efficiency, it was more than Sebastian could hope for from someone in his line of work. Though precisely what that line of work was had yet to be made clear. Maybe it was written down in the employee manual Ginger had mentioned. Reading any sort of small text on a bright, backlit screen sounded shitty at the moment, but if that was what it took, then he’d have to get a few more hours of sleep and give it his best effort. 

“Thanks for the heads-up.” He said as he pocketed the items, doing his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Ginger glanced at his watch, then cursed and scarfed down the remainder of his meal at an impressive rate. The plate was licked clean in fifteen seconds. 

“Sorry, mate, got a job to get to. Here’s twenty-five quid to pay. Buy yourself something to take home. You look like shit.” Sebastian wasn’t so proud as to turn down money that was offered him, and he nodded his thanks as he took the bills. He had no intention of buying anything here—too expensive, and he was nauseous anyway—but he might be able to pick up something from the store later to hold him over for a few days. 

“I’ll see you then, Ging.” The man pulled a face at the nickname, but didn’t have any comeback. He was already turning away from the table when he gave his goodbye. 

“Fuck off, wanker.” Sebastian smirked. That was his most successful social encounter in recent memory.


	5. Brass Tacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian comes to grips with his new life situation.

The weight of the phone in his pocket, however slight, prevented Sebastian from zoning out during his trip back to the flat. The crush of people on the tube usually faded away into a static of unnecessary data, not worth the trouble to process. Any sense of claustrophobia was better ignored than heeded, so Sebastian’s general strategy was to adopt the seasoned Londoner’s thousand yard stare, and pretend not to notice the panhandlers, the tourists, the crying children. But now, his mind was buzzing. Alert. He had not been given an actual job yet, but the possibility hung in the air. Any of these people, conceivably, could be a target. In a matter of twenty minutes, London had gone from an overpriced cess pool to his brand new hunting grounds. 

His growing excitement (and likely the tea he had managed to get down) even muffled his hangover, and by the time he got back to his flat, Sebastian felt mostly like himself again. He made himself a slice of toast and poured himself a glass of water before going to his cheap little table and sitting down. Turning on the phone, he began perusing through it. 

As Ginger had promised, there were already some numbers programmed onto the phone—a few contacts whose names he didn’t know, a few more whose functions came in place of actual names: ‘doctor’ and ‘cabbie’. Beyond that, there was an odd application that showed a map of London, with a single red dot over his flat, marked by tiny initials—SM. He supposed ‘M’ wasn’t putting on any pretences of not having a GPS tracker in his phone. Flicking through a few more applications (for some reason, his phone came ready-equipped with a game of Solitaire on it) he was about to open an application called ‘jobs’ when he was prompted with instructions on phone security. Random passcode. Self-destruct prompt… It was like something out of a Bond film. Sebastian grinned. 

After following the instructions, he opened the application again. Under the ‘current jobs’ tab, there was a great blank space. Fair enough. Ginger had said tomorrow. No point getting ahead of himself. The ‘general information’ tab was very sparse, just a few quick sentences describing what Sebastian’s role was to be, amounting to little more than a declaration that Sebastian was to do as he was told when he was told to do it. The ‘rules’ tab though was far from empty. Half a dozen sections: personal conduct and day-to-day life, using company resources, standings, emergencies, rewards and punishments, and termination. Sebastian whistled low under his breath as he browsed through the intricacies of M’s demands. They seemed to have accounted for nearly every eventuality and concern—addressing the prevention of every possible employee slip-up, and the consequences if the proper steps were not followed. All were brutal, many creative. While nowhere in the contents of the phone were the specifics of the organization mentioned, reading through the rules, Sebastian was able to shape an idea of just how large it was. One hundred well-oiled cogs, each blind to those working just one step away, compartmentalized so that if one part was compromised, it could be cut off like a gangrenous limb. An impressive piece of work. 

Taking the charger out of his pocket, Sebastian plugged the phone into the wall before going to down another painkiller with the remains of his glass of water. His throbbing headache was fading now, but for the first time in a long time, he had no desire to head out to Tully’s for a spot of day-drinking. Not that he would have dared after reading M’s rules. Something like this was too rare and too interesting to risk throwing out over a few glasses of piss-poor gin. For the first time since his dismissal from the army, he had something to look forward to. The deep internal drain on any desire to get out of bed in the morning that he had developed in the MCTC and that had failed to be stoppered by alcohol and blackjack was plugged now, and his excitement was growing. He would show M that they hadn’t made a mistake in taking a chance on him. Any job they laid out, any hit, deal, or theft, he would perform, and he would make sure they were fucking impressed. And that was without even considering the extra dose of motivation that the money provided.

After weeks of surviving on his dwindling savings with nothing but his meagre gambling winnings to pad his wallet, even the little bit of pocket change that Ginger had given him felt like a godsend. To have a steady income, forty thousand quid a year, would be fantastic. Maybe he could actually afford a bedframe and a mattress and a couch, and a flat with consistently working electricity. Someplace decent that he could let people see. He could go to pubs that were actually visited by the Food Standards Agency. Maybe the fact that these tiny luxuries seemed so thrilling was a sign of just how dark his outlook had been, but fucking hell, the more he thought about it, the less he cared to look back on how his future had appeared yesterday. 

There was too much energy searing under his skin now to slump back to bed as he had originally been intending to, but not enough money in his pocket to go much of anywhere or do much of anything. His flat was barren. So for the first time in ages, he downed yet more water, took off his trousers, stretched, then began his usual exercise routine. It was sad, really, how over so short a period of time his body could have decayed so much. His usual programme, which months ago he had been able to complete with just a light sweat and slightly elevated heartrate burned his unpractised muscles now. But it was something—something useful, something to remind himself that from here on out, things would be getting better. Two hours later, muscles protesting but feeling really damn good, he slipped away to shower. He whiled away the rest of the day cleaning, and made a run to the nearest Tesco to buy a bit of actual food with the remains of Ginger’s money. Chicken, spinach and pasta had never tasted so good. Though he had tried to tire himself out as much as possible, when he finally settled down on the lilo to sleep, it still took ages for the anticipatory eagerness to fade into unconsciousness.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have something real to do with himself.


	6. Well Laid Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets his first job.

Watery sun filtered in through the blinds. This time, Sebastian woke gradually. His dreams faded in and out, all confused tangles of desert heat and London fog, bar fights, firefights, rambling walks through places whose names he couldn’t quite remember... When he finally peeled open his eyes, the room, barren and anonymous as it was, felt unfamiliar. Maybe it was because he had never woken up here without a hangover before. Sitting up, Sebastian ground a palm into his eye, taking stock of his surroundings. That was sure as hell his old rugby bag, and it was difficult to imagine anywhere else housing his crappy lilo. Everything seemed to be in its proper place. As the surreal feeling dissipated, the memory of his meeting with the red-haired man yesterday returned, and he got to his feet, stretching. He really should have kept his new phone by his bed. 

Barefooted, he shuffled out to the main room, stooping to turn on his mobile. A text hung over the upper portion of the screen, and Sebastian’s heart pulsed as he opened it, before dropping. It was not a job, just a message from a pre-programmed contact, ‘Rodger’. 

‘Nice meeting you, Sebastian. –Ging’ 

Sebastian smirked, depositing the phone on the kitchen counter before going to the fridge to help himself to leftovers. Rodger had said that this was a night job, but at the time Sebastian hadn’t fully taken that to heart. It was 10:30 now, though, so all the self-respecting day-workers should already be getting shit done. It seemed doubtful he’d be contacted before noon, at the earliest. Of course, had a call already gone out, he would have been dead asleep, and probably fucked over his new job before he even began. He’d have to keep the thing on him, valuable and fragile-looking as it was. The minute he got his first paycheque, he’d have to buy a case for it—like hell he was going to break it by dropping it. 

Waiting today turned out to be even more unbearable than waiting last night. Then, at least, he had been sure that he wouldn’t get a call until today. Now it could be any moment. He showered, brushed his teeth, did the dishes and then, when he could find nothing else to occupy himself with, played solitaire on his phone. It was a few hours after noon when his phone finally chimed. Every nerve sharpened, Sebastian clicked through to the ‘current jobs’ folder and began reading.

‘Gregory Nelson is the lieutenant of a group of cocaine importers and distributers throughout Greater London. This evening at 8:30, most of the ring will be otherwise occupied. You will find Nelson and two to four members of the ring at a defunct Pirelli tyre warehouse in Erith. All will be armed.

A driver will pick you up from your flat at 7:30 to get you within walking distance. He will also provide you a handgun. At least one of the lorry bays on the south side of the building will be open. You will shoot Nelson, and only Nelson, in the right side of his head without provoking fire, no sooner than 8:50 but no later than 9:00. Then, take his gun, and put yours in his right hand. I would suggest that you then leave as quickly as possible. Move to the location where you were dropped off by the driver, and then call him. He will retrieve you. You will avoid detection throughout. Good luck, Sebastian. –Mxx’

There was a map attached of the warehouse, as well as a picture of a man with dark hair going grey and a strong nose coloured by a flush of rosacea. He must have been handsome when he was younger. Either way, Sebastian figured his face would be easy to remember—the simplest part of the entire job. He had a ten minute window to take a specific shot and plant a gun on the body of a man in a building he had never set foot in, containing other armed hostiles whom he couldn’t come into contact with in any way, and then haul ass out of there before anyone noticed his presence. He could guess from the description of the job that it was meant to look like a suicide, and the impression would be shattered if anyone caught a glimpse of him. It was a serious challenge, and there was nothing else in the world Sebastian would rather attempt. 

Clapping his hands together and grinning like a madman, Sebastian pushed away from the kitchen table, fingers flexing spasmodically like he was trying to work the life back into them. In a way, he was. It had been too damn long since he had done anything even close to this, and while muscle memory was slow to fade, the thought of a gun in his hand felt fresh and exciting. This was going to be a good night. He still had four hours to wait, though, and graced with the knowledge of what he would be doing, he was all keyed up with little to do. There was only so much preparation he could do for this job.

He surveyed the map again, multiple times, scrutinized it, trying to determine its likely layout and the way people would move through it based on the floorplan. The information was sparse. It was a warehouse, and while he supposed they could easily put false walls in to segment the space into smaller parcels, if it was still being used for storing goods, things probably hadn’t changed much. One centralized room, taking up the majority of the area, a few small offices, a bathroom and an employee break room connected by a narrow hallway along one wall and a corner. 

Sebastian pursed his lips, considering. This was a drug trafficking ring he was infiltrating. The warehouse was likely used as a temporary place of storage for the cocaine, probably disguised among some more innocuous product, in case someone wandered in. If that was the case, then maybe one or two people, but not all of them, would be in the main room, to keep an eye on any supply they did have. The rest of the non-targets would likely be together, in the break room or possibly one of the offices. And Sebastian would just have to hope that Nelson liked to keep his distance from his underlings. Otherwise, things would get even more complicated. 

In the remaining hours before the driver was due to arrive, Sebastian tried to come up with some sort of a flowchart plan that he could alter based on the movement of people within the warehouse. It didn’t go particularly well. Too many variables to balance, and not enough flexibility on his part. Fuck it. He could wing the whole damn thing. He had done similar things before, and he had always gotten out with his hide at least partially intact. 

Sebastian had stationed himself at the window as the critical hour approached. Right on the mark a black cab drifted to a stop on the curb outside of his flat. Fingers tingling, Sebastian let himself out, tucking his phone into his trouser pocket and locking the door behind him. It was chilly, but he couldn’t risk wearing his jacket. The Gore-Tex rustled against itself, and stealth was too important to risk unnecessary sound just for the warmth. A sweatshirt would have to do. Stepping into the back of the cab, he made eye contact with the driver through the rear-view mirror. He was nondescript, middle-aged, and too soft to be involved in any real physical work. The man glanced away, then indicated the seat next to Sebastian with a nod of his head. 

“Gun’s in the case under the seat beside you,” The man said as he turned the cab back onto the street. Sebastian glanced over, reaching down to pull the black plastic case out from under the seat, cracking it open. It was a GLOCK 38. Decent, but nothing special about it really. Sebastian could only presume it was the same gun Nelson had, if he was swapping them for whatever reason. There was a space in the case for an extra magazine of bullets, but it was empty, and the magazine loaded into the gun itself was five short of the standard eight. Not like it mattered. This was supposed to be a one shot job. Checking the safety, Sebastian slid the gun into his sweatshirt pocket before replacing the case under the seat again, and leaning back to watch the traffic go by. 

It took ages. The drive east was long enough generally, but in his impatience today it seemed endless. The impression was heightened by the driver’s silence, and the monotony of the streets in the dying light. When they finally approached Erith, the car stopped at a gasworks a half mile west of the warehouse. Sebastian let himself out of the car the moment it stopped moving, catching a look of faint surprise on the driver’s face as he moved past the window, sticking to the side of the road opposite to the target building, hands in his pockets. Behind him, he heard the car turn around, the sound of its engine and its tyres on the pavement fading within seconds. There was no option but success now. 

The walk, at least, was far shorter than the drive. Within a couple of minutes, the warehouse came into view. It was a squat, decrepit building made out of corrugated metal, four lorry bays punched into its southern side. Clearly it hadn’t seen legitimate use in about a decade. As M had promised, one of them was half-open, letting out a bar of light onto the cracked concrete. Beyond that, though, there were no signs of life. No cars, no sound. Just him and three to five other men waiting inside that building. He checked his clock. 8:38. Time to get moving. 

There were only two proper doors in the warehouse: one in the front, by the lorry bays, and one in the back, leading out of the hallway connecting the offices. M had not explicitly said those doors would be locked, but even if they weren’t, they would likely be monitored. No point in trying them. Steering clear of the front door and well to the side of the partially open lorry bay, Sebastian approached the building, falling still once he reached the metal wall. There were no moving shadows interrupting the slat of light coming from beneath the bay door, and even when he quieted his breath, he heard nothing. That didn’t mean much. People could be nearly silent if they were standing still, and someone could be standing in full sight of the door without casting a shadow Sebastian could see from here, but it was enough of a comfort to take a risk. 

Crouching down a yard to the side of the entry point, Sebastian moved forward to peer under the metal door. It was open a couple feet, and while Sebastian could fit through without a problem, it would be an awkward manoeuvre, because it was a good four feet above the ground: nothing he could do particularly fast. The good news was that a stack of cardboard boxes on a pallet sat a short distance from the bay door. Someone off to the left or right might still be watching the gap, but no one across the room could see him trying to make his entrance. Still no talk or sound of movement. After a second of consideration, Sebastian removed his phone from his pocket, and held it just inside the door, angling the reflective back so he could check out the corners without sticking his whole head in. To the right, there was a blank metal wall, no cover, but no guard. To the left, there was another pallet loaded up with cardboard boxes. It was his lucky day. 

He had twenty minutes to locate Nelson, kill him, swap guns, then get the hell out. The clock was ticking. No point hanging around on the doorstep: he wouldn’t get a better opportunity. Drawing in a final breath of outside air, steadying his eager heart, Sebastian flexed his fingers in preparation, then hooked his arm under the door, and hefted himself up into the narrow space.


	7. Lone Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian tries to do his job.

The warehouse was flooded with fluorescent light, and Sebastian blinked against it, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Even now, everything was quiet. His entrance hadn’t exactly been silent—his belly and elbows had brushed against the concrete floor—but if there was a guard, they would have needed to be close to hear him. So, there was probably a clear radius of three or four meters around him. Beyond that, it was impossible to tell. The downside of being shielded off from the rest of the room was that he couldn’t see a fucking thing either. That was his first problem to solve. 

The pallet in front of him and to the left were both stacked about five feet high, so assuming whatever other cargo in the warehouse was the same, he couldn’t stand fully. The door that led to the offices should be in the back corner of the building. He’d have to cross the whole warehouse floor in a crouch, peering around corners. Fantastic. Lifting himself to his feet but keeping low, Sebastian moved to the left edge of the pallet, listening again before glancing around it. The remainder of the warehouse was not neatly arranged into a grid of free spaces between pallets. It was a mess of discarded tyres stacked up on each other, rusting racks, scattered crates and boxes. He couldn’t get a clear shot to the other side of the warehouse, and many places didn’t even have five feet of vertical coverage, which complicated things. Still no guard in sight, though. Leaning back into cover, Sebastian considered the layout of the room. From here, he could make a quick run to the forklift parked by a pile of rubber scrap, from there to an area shielded on the front and right by boxes and from there, he might well be within dashing distance of the door. 

There was no mental count down. Sebastian didn’t psych himself up for a run like this. Even if M’s orders had essentially declawed him, he was still the predator here. He was the reason they had armed guards. He was their worst case scenario. 

Moving low and fast, missing only the weight of a gun in his hand instead of in his pocket, Sebastian started for the forklift, ears still pricked for any sound of movement or reaction, though if anyone did spot him, he would have limited recourse. The mission would be a failure. Better not be spotted, then. Ducking behind the machine, Sebastian peered out the narrow gap between the mast and the chassis, surveying the area ahead. Still no one. Sebastian was leaning towards there being two men in addition to the target, instead of the four M had suggested as a possibility. Either way, they were doing a shite job of guarding this building if his target or anything in it was of value. Another dash took him to the pile of scattered boxes and within sight of the door to the interior hall, and this time Sebastian made doubly sure that the corners were clear before making a run for it. 

Pressing his ear to the door and crouching to peer through the gap under it revealed nothing, but there was no way of being certain what was on the other side. Staying out in the open by what was presumably a major through-point wouldn’t help anything, though. The handle turned freely beneath his hand. Slowly, he opened the latch, pushing it open a few bare millimetres to peer down the hall. The two offices closest to him, the bathrooms, and the door leading to the break room at the end of the hall were closed. The third lay open, but from this angle he couldn’t see inside. No sign of movement, certainly no one there watching the door. 

Sebastian let himself in, senses on a feather-light trip. Something uneasy cut into the marrow of his bones and set his teeth on edge, like the buzzing of a dentist’s drill. This place was far too quiet. Sebastian might not be the face of model social behaviour, but he knew people. He knew how they moved and how they acted. He had plenty of experience with militaristic hierarchies like the ones at play in terrorist organizations, drug rings and the Queen’s own. Even operating under an iron fist, silence was never the norm. People moved and talked, played with their phones. Unless they were consciously silencing themselves, people were noisy, and given the number of men supposed to be here, this place was far too quiet. That left three options. Either the doors and walls were soundproofed, there was no one here, or he was expected. Fingering his gun through his sweatshirt, Sebastian considered his options. 

If they were expecting him, he was fucked no matter how he looked at it, but that seemed unlikely. If they had known he was coming but didn’t want to flee, they should have planned an ambush in the main body of the warehouse. They had the advantage of numbers. There would be no cause for them to cram themselves into a smaller room and reduce that benefit. That much was common sense. If no one was here, he couldn’t complete his mission, but it wouldn’t be his fault. M would have given him an impossible task: no harm no foul. It would be difficult to screw that scenario up no matter what he did, so he could ignore it. Which left soundproofing as his safest assumption. In which case, his target was in one of these rooms, and the other members of the ring could either be with him, or in another room. None of the rooms had windows, and all of them, presumably, were soundproofed. Grim prospects. Except something was picking at his mind.

Walking along the wall to the open office door, Sebastian listened briefly before looking around the corner, finding it empty and darkened. Moving into the relative protection of the room, Sebastian studied the door. It was exactly the sort of door he’d expect to find in a crappy office like this—the same sort of door his flat was equipped with—light and hollow. Not soundproofed, and visually, at least, identical to all of the others in the hall. The chances of a drug ring buying three soundproofed doors to match one cheap door as some sort of a ploy were virtually none. 

Sebastian dragged a hand over his brow and along the stubble of his jaw, reconsidering his options. The most likely possibility that remained was that M’s information had been bad: the people who were supposed to be occupying this warehouse had decided to be ‘otherwise occupied’ with the rest of the ring. It was a risky assumption to make. 

Sebastian checked his phone. Ten minutes left. Moving to the door at the end of the hall, Sebastian pressed his ear to it, glanced under it to find the lights off, and opened it. He half expected half a dozen men brandishing guns to leap out of the shadows. But no, just an empty room—a derelict pool table, a table, a vending machine. He repeated the procedure with the next door: another empty office, identical to the first. Then the bathroom. Lights off, all the stalls empty. He moved on to the last office, pressed his ear to the door, and then froze. 

He saw no light leaking out from under this door, but he heard something other than dead air. It was subtle, soft, a shifting of fabric against fabric, the hint of breathing. Sebastian fell back. There was a chance this could be Nelson, or it could be someone else. If it was Nelson, he needed a shot to the right side of the head—nothing he could get easily facing him, assuming the room was set up in the same way as the other offices. If not, he couldn’t allow himself to be seen at all. Sebastian needed to get them out of the room without them seeing him and, considering the time restraint, there was only one way to do that. The cost was weighed, and the gambler made his bet. He knocked on the door and sprinted for cover in the nearest office. Drawing the handgun, Sebastian ducked behind the door and clicked the safety off, quieting his breath. 

In the dark, through the worn fabric of his trousers, the screen of his phone lit up. Sebastian ignored it. Not important. He could deal whatever it was after he dealt with whoever was in that office. He waited. Silence. His phone’s light went out. Nothing. Had he just been imagining those faint little sounds? The phone’s light flared on again, and Sebastian waited another twenty seconds before removing it from his pocket. It was a text alert from an unknown number.

‘Don’t play knock-a-door-run with me, Sebastian. –M’

‘Put away your gun and come say hi. –Mx’


	8. Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian realizes who 'M' is.

Sebastian found himself staring blankly at the screen, trying to determine what the hell was going on, when a third text appeared. 

‘Don’t make me wait all night, Moran. –M’ 

Struggling to change gears, Sebastian slid his mobile back into his pocket, lowering his gun, but keeping it in hand as he made his way back out of the empty office, to the door of the occupied one. None of this made any fucking sense. His mind was whirring with questions that he could find no obvious answer to. The impression of wrongness he had gotten in this place had been justified, but in terms of what was happening, he was lost. This was a very elaborate setup to waste on one fresh recruit dredged up from the least inviting street in Newham. Did M make some sort of ceremonial appearance to every new hire? Seemed like a waste of time. Did he send a proxy to pose as him? This could be some sort of initiation. Except for the intricacy of it all, it could almost be a hoax, though what anyone would be trying to get out of it was beyond him. 

Not waiting for Sebastian’s mind to catch up, his free hand reached out and opened the door. The room beyond was dark, and Sebastian struggled to make out anything while his eyes adjusted to the change of light. He got a brief glimpse of a man’s face, illuminated oddly by the bluish glow of a laptop, before it was snapped shut.

“Turn on the light.” That was not the voice he had been expecting. It was almost gentle, with a distinctive Irish (Dublin?) drawl. Automatically, Sebastian obeyed, flipping the switch to the side of the door. The tube lights in the ceiling flickered, then came on. 

The man behind the desk was in his mid-thirties, and looked nothing like the picture Sebastian had conjured up of M. Assuming this really was M. He had none of the tough grizzle of the higher ups in the army, and none of the overt swagger of the mobsters he’d seen in films. He was well-dressed: navy suit, crisp shirt, no gun in his jacket pocket. In most respects, he had the benign look of a pharmaceutical sales rep. Attractive, but not so much as to be distracting. Sebastian would have passed him on the street with just a lingering glance. Though there was something… Maybe he was imagining it, his mind just making an effort to assign danger to this man with untouched skin and middling build, but he caught an odd, cold light in those dark eyes, sharp enough to cut glass; vaguely familiar, like something half-remembered from a nightmare.

“Hello, Sebastian. You look dazed. Sit down,” The man gestured to the seat across from him, and Sebastian took a few steps forward and slid into it, still holding the GLOCK loosely in one hand, “You can put away the gun now. Or not. But it’s harmless. Dummy rounds. I couldn’t risk you shooting me if you got trigger-happy. That would be such a disappointing conclusion to this little experiment.”

Dummy rounds? Sebastian frowned. Pointing the gun at the wall to his right, he pulled the trigger. There was a click, then nothing. No explosive charge. Tucking the gun back into his sweatshirt pocket, he looked up to see the man in the suit staring at him, thin eyebrows arched. 

“Risky move with little to gain, Sebastian. Don’t you trust me?” Sebastian trusted nothing in that artificially sweetened smile. 

“This whole mission has been a lie. I just like to know what I’m dealing with. Particularly with guns. I’m sorry, sir, but could you please explain what’s going on? I don’t understand what the objective was here.” His sense of reality felt slightly frayed. He had been creeping around an empty warehouse with inert bullets, trying to kill a man who had never been there at all. The Irishman leaned back in his chair, a curious, bird-like look on his face. Sebastian could feel the man sizing him up; maybe determining how much to tell him.

“A position just opened up in my organization. Not the low-level one you thought you had been offered, but something important. You’d be surprised how few intelligent, well-educated, highly trained military men fall into a life of crime. I had someone else in mind, but then you ran into one of my men the day before yesterday. It was easy to read your military history, and then your face…” The Irishman trailed off, tilting his head. Sebastian met his gaze, waiting. Within a few seconds, he continued, unfazed. 

“In any case, Sebastian, my first instinct was to start you at the bottom, expecting you to work your way up. Prove yourself. But I read about the missions you were sent on. I’ve seen the reports. And you were the best. I just had to make sure that you still had some edge. Five years in that military prison would dull most people. I prefer someone to remain in this particular position a long time, and since now I’m convinced you have the capability to do the job well, I thought I would offer it to you. Anyway, I owe you.” 

Sebastian’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth, intent on asking what M owed him, and what exactly this new position was, but the man pressed on before he got a chance to speak. 

“Or have you forgotten? I suppose we’ve both gotten older. ” He struck a pose, turning to let Sebastian examine him in profile. Had he seen him before? Except for those eyes, there was little that would stick in his memory. No one from the military. University? That was a possibility, but he couldn’t recall anyone owing him a serious debt. The man didn’t allow him much time to think, facing him head-on again and huffing out an exaggerated breath of disappointment. 

“I just have one of those faces, I suppose. Jim Moriarty. Do you remember?” Sebastian echoed the name silently, racking his brain for a connection, “Maybe you never bothered to find out. Too much work for you back then. Maybe you didn’t like thinking about it. I’ll give you a hint. We both knew Katie Mullins.” 

It hit him in the chest like the pressure wave off an explosion. It must have showed in his face, because Jim smiled, slender as a knife’s edge.

“That’s it.” Those eyes—he had thought there was something familiar about them. He knew Jim.


	9. Venom over Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian remembers the first time he met Jim.

“You don’t have to take that from her, you know, Sebastian.” 

Sebastian had been kicking at the frame of the swings with measured but hard strokes. Hard enough to hurt, but not so hard as to break his toes. He had learned that lesson already. He looked up at the interruption, frowning at the pale, dark-haired boy sitting motionless on one of the swings, legs dangling. 

“What do you mean?” Maybe it should have been obvious. Sebastian had been letting out his anger at having been kept indoors for a full thirty minutes of break, because he had failed to finish his maths homework. 

“The teacher, idiot. Ms. Patton. You don’t like the way she treated you, do you?” The boy’s eyes were glossy, but they conveyed little emotion. Flat as a window pane. Sebastian struggled to place him. He had seen him before. Too small for his class. Skinny. His clothes always too big. Different and poor. It only took a glance to tell that. But it marked him a social pariah, and so Sebastian had made no effort to remember him.

“No,” He admitted, kicking again at the swing frame, “She made me stay indoors for half of playtime because I didn’t do my bloody maths.” The curse felt foreign and exciting on his lips. The dark-haired boy smiled a small, close-lipped smile that narrowed his eyes. 

“You’ve let her see she’s upset you. That means you’re telling her she’s in charge of you. Superior to you. But she’s not. It’s a game that teachers play. They almost always win.” Sebastian wasn’t so sure he believed that. Ms. Patton was an adult, after all, and a teacher. She could get him into serious trouble. He could be sent down to the headmaster’s office, and then they might call his father. Still, he’d bite. 

“But you know how to win?” The thin little smile was back. Sebastian was reminded of his Auntie’s awful tabby, which would creep under the kitchen table while he was eating and scratch his leg, unprovoked. 

“I do.” Sebastian waited, expecting elaboration, but the boy just sat in silence, unmoving. His smile and gaze remained fixed. 

“So, how do you do it, then?”

“What do I get?” Sebastian blinked at that, surprised. He wanted something for an answer to a question? He pressed his lips together, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets and taking a small step back from the swing frame. 

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much,” The dark-haired boy kicked his legs, and the swing wobbled, “Katie Mullins. She fancies you.” Sebastian pulled a disgusted face—he had thought so, she had been giggling at him for ages—but the other boy pressed on, undeterred, “She’s playing over there. Tell her that you want to tell her a secret in private. Take her to the pine trees by the fence, and push her into the pile of pine needles there. That’s all.” That seemed like a strange request. Sebastian frowned, tugging at the hem of his jumper. 

“Why do you want me to do that?” 

“Because it will be funny. And she laughed at me.” A revenge mission, then. Sebastian was never one to refuse hijinks. She was a girl who apparently fancied him. That was enough of a motive to push her into a pine needle pile, even without a reward. 

"I can do that."

“Alright. Good. If she tattles on you, you won’t mention me. You’ll say you did it because you heard she fancied you, and you wanted her to stop. Or else I’ll tell everyone why you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot.” It was like someone had pulled a stopper out at the bottom of his stomach. All his warmth drained away to a numb, tingling chill.

“Yeah.” Sebastian answered, and the pale boy cocked his head at him, eyebrows raising.

“Off you pop.”

Feeling a strange thrill overlaying the coldness, as though he was sliding into water just deep enough that his toes could scrape the bottom, Sebastian started for the slides where Katie was playing with two other girls. He was not sure how Jim knew about the marks on his arms, but despite that, there was something clandestine and exciting about doing this revenge mission, so that he himself could get even with Ms. Patton—prevent her from winning her struggle for control over him. Katie saw him coming. She looked up, made eye contact, then burst into a fit of giggles and turned to whisper to one of her friends. Fighting the urge to pull a face, Sebastian walked up to her, rehearsing in his head what he would say. ‘Katie, I have a secret I want to tell you.’ ‘Katie, I have a secret I want to tell you.’ ‘Katie, I have a secret-‘

“Hi, Sebastian.” Katie’s friends giggled an accompaniment to her greeting. Sebastian felt his face go hot, and his mouth opened.

“Katie, I—Um. Hi, Katie,” Across the playground, he felt a shiver in the air; a soft sound that he knew without looking was the dark-haired boy’s laughter. Pulling himself together, he pressed on, the sentence coming out in a rush, “Katie. I have a secret I want to tell you.” Katie’s mouth went into a little ‘o’ of surprise, but her friends giggled all the more. 

“Over there,” Sebastian continued, nodding towards the trees, “It’s important.” 

“Okay Sebastian,” She dragged out his name for as long as was feasible, and Sebastian averted his eyes, embarrassed as she started giggling again. A few of his other classmates had noticed the goings on, and he caught Jake and Liam pointing at him from the edge of the football field. He would never hear the end of it if they thought he liked a girl. Katie jumped up from her perch at the bottom of the slide and nudged up against him, her shoulder brushing against his as he started for the pine trees. The saccharine smell of her strawberry shampoo made Sebastian wrinkle his nose. Finally they stopped by the pile of pine needles, and Sebastian turned away to face Katie. For once, though, she wasn’t staring at him. Her eyes were following the path of a wasp as it whizzed through the air to land on the sap-sticky bark of the tree. Maybe for once he had the upper hand on her. 

“I heard you fancied me.” That got her attention. She turned to look at him and smiled a too-wide, too-sweet smile. 

“Maybe.” She dragged out all the vowels again. His face was burning hotter than ever. 

“And you and your friends keep laughing at me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I don’t fancy you, so stop.” 

It felt natural to push her. Sebastian played rough with all of his friends, and while this wasn’t so much a game as a mission, it didn’t seem very different. It hardly mattered she was a girl. They were the same size, after all. He just put a hand on her sternum and shoved. The emotional hurt had barely registered on Katie’s face before she was falling straight into the little pile of pine needles, and her expression didn’t have time to swap to surprise before something crunched beneath her weight. Katie shrieked. Her scream startled Sebastian, and he jumped backwards. Something hot and sharp stabbed into his calf. It was only then that he noticed all the wasps. They were swarming around Katie and out towards him as well. And then he realized what had crunched. There had been a wasp nest beneath all the pine needles. 

“Run!” He shouted at her as another stung his cheek, the back of his hand, his wrist, turning tail to bolt away from the trees, knowing some of them were still chasing him as a few bites landed on his bare legs. Behind him, he heard Katie still screaming, heard her get up, but he didn’t look back, only covering his face as he sprinted back towards the playground. She could run just as well as he could, after all, and he wasn’t about to risk extra wasp stings for a girl he didn’t like. Ms. Patton and two of the teachers supervising free time were sprinting over anyway. Ms. Patton grabbed his hand, pulling him with her away from the trees, calling for the rest of the classes to get inside. It was only with her running with him back over the blacktop and towards the sanctuary of the hall that he risked a glance back over his shoulder. He saw the other two teachers still halfway between the trees and the slide, one of them carrying Katie in her arms. The dark-haired boy was nowhere to be seen—probably somewhere in the mass of students pressing back into the school behind them. 

“What happened?” Sebastian blinked up into Ms. Patton’s face, trying to decode just what it was she was feeling. Frightened, maybe. Accusatory. Sebastian dragged in a rough breath. He had gotten about half a dozen wasp stings, and he hurt, and he was breathing fast from terror and the mad dash. His hands were shaking. He had suffered worse pains before, though. He pulled himself together as best he could to answer.

“Katie Mullins and her friends have been giggling at me, because she fancies me. So I told her to stop it. And I wanted her to know I meant it, so I pushed her into the pine needles. But I didn’t know there were wasps in it, I swear.” All true. And he had promised the dark-haired boy that he wouldn’t tell. It wasn’t really that bad, was it? Just pushing someone into some pine needles? It was better than even pushing someone down on the football field, where the ground was harder. If it hadn’t been for the wasps, it probably wouldn’t have hurt at all, and he hadn’t known about those. He couldn’t get in trouble for that, could he? His mind was whirring now, though. If they called his father, then would have cause to worry. Whatever the school would do to him was nothing compared to what he might do. Then he noticed the look on Ms. Patton’s face. She had gone grey. 

“Stay here,” She said to him, and then to the students in the hall in general, “You stay right here.” The entire class was chattering. Sebastian felt very alone in his silence. Stomach crawling, he watched Ms. Patton sprint down the hall in the direction of the front office. She had only just turned the corner when he felt hot breath against his ear. He should have jumped, but he was still coming down from the panic of running away from the wasps. Everything felt a little fuzzy.

“Good job, Sebastian,” It was easy to identify the dark-haired boy by his Dublin accent, “I’ll tell you the secret. The next time it happens, just act as though you don’t care. Just watch her. Don’t do your maths. And if she threatens to call your father, tell her you know about Mr. Moore. Tell her you have a picture of them in Mr. Moore’s car. I promise it will work. Cross my heart.” He was too warm and too close, and it made his skin crawl. Sebastian was sure he must be standing on his tiptoes to whisper in his ear like that. If he looked around, they would bump foreheads. “And if you ever need a favour –like with your father or something—then I owe you.” 

A teacher from another class was jogging down the hall from the office, and the dark-haired boy pulled away from him. Sebastian turned to watch him slink away into a group of students that was budding off from the main one to gather around their teacher. Confused, Sebastian narrowed his eyes at him, but the other boy only smiled that chilly little smile he had on the swings and mouthed ‘bye-bye’.


	10. Deal with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets a revised job offer.

Jim’s smile remained fixed as Sebastian processed that realization, watching as the soldier scrubbed his stubble-rough cheek with his hand, then fell back into his chair. That day hadn’t been the last time Sebastian had seen Jim while they were still at school, but he had never spoken to the boy again; had averted his eyes when he walked past. He found out later that Katie had a severe allergy to bee and wasp stings, and the school had been picked clean of epi pens that day. By the time the ambulance had arrived, she was already in anaphylactic shock. She had died before anyone was able to administer epinephrine. Even then, Sebastian had doubted that the disappearance of the epi pens was coincidental, though given how little information filtered down to the student body, it had taken him a long time to completely untangle the events of that day. Something about the boy’s pleased whisper and serene, porcelain-doll face suggested he had known exactly what was going on, even when the rest of the school was in disarray. Now, he could be sure.

“You never did take me up on my offer to help,” Jim mused, “Shame. If you had called on me oh… five years later? And asked me to give you a hand with your father, today you’d be living in his estate. Though maybe you’re happier that things turned out the way that they did.” Sebastian wasn’t quite listening to Jim, still reflecting on Katie’s death.

“How old were you? Nine?”

“Eight,” The Irishman answered, indifferent, “It was hardly difficult, Sebastian. The year before she had been stung on sports day, and the teachers made a big fuss and injected her with an epi pen. I was curious, she was annoying, and you presented an opportunity: a connection, aggression problems, and a secret you wanted to keep. How could I resist a lure like that? You were the first, you know—the first person who ever killed for me. You popped my cherry,” Sebastian’s eyebrows quirked up, and Jim smiled, tongue sliding over his lower lip with deliberate slowness. Sebastian’s stomach squeezed tight, and whatever expression flickered over his face pleased Jim immensely. His smile widened enough to show his teeth.

“And I made a murderer out of you in return. Was I the one to send you down this path, Tiger? Or was it your father? Or were you born this way—so hungry for bloodshed, a wolf among sheep? I like to think that I influenced you. Did you think of her sometimes? How you cut short whatever life she was going to have when you pushed her into that wasp nest? How does it make you feel? Superior? Amused? Nothing at—“ 

“She was a kid,” Sebastian burst out, unable to sit silently through any more of Jim’s contemplations. His words tugged at questions Sebastian had once asked himself, and neither the questions nor the answers brought him any comfort, “No, I didn’t feel superior or powerful. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.” Jim pulled a face, like a parent catching a child in an obvious lie. 

“Very touchy, Sebastian… You did tell Ms. Patton exactly what I told you to tell her, though. You didn’t even wait a week to use the information you earned by killing your classmate. Don’t pretend you were in mourning. I would be surprised if you shed a tear for her. Or anyone you killed or let die after her. You were so terribly excited to pick up where you left off as soon as you were given the chance. Even though you knew it wasn’t for ‘the good of the nation’. You weren’t interested in being a hero. You just wanted to shoot someone.” Sebastian felt his jaw tighten and shoulders square, as though his body was physically attempting to reject the implications of Jim’s probing. “Come now, Tiger. You must have known that you weren’t a good person—that you weren’t like ordinary people. Or do you just avoid analysing your feelings too closely?” The question hung in the air for a long time as Sebastian steeled himself, considering how to answer. Remaining silent would be a reply in itself. 

“I signed up to kill low-lives like me,” Sebastian said, guarded, “People that no one would miss. Who got themselves involved with the wrong sorts of people. Not children, or anything.” Jim pressed on, patient.

“What would you do if I asked you to kill an innocent person? Because I may ask you to, darling. If that’s a problem, you need to tell me now.” There was no question in Sebastian’s mind. It was almost startling how innate the answer was. He gritted his teeth. Jim tilted his head to the side, face full of faux innocence, “Well, Sebastian?” 

“I would kill them,” Sebastian said at last, the words fighting his teeth to get out. The Irishman beamed, and for once the expression was almost warm, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Sebastian’s mouth pressed into a firm line, “What is this special position you’re offering me, anyway?” He hadn’t been hired to chat about his own morality, and he wasn’t interested in doing it on his free time either. 

“My last bodyguard disappointed me. I could tell you the story, but I’m sure you’ve already guessed the ending for yourself. I need a new one, to guard my home and take me to certain semi-public events. I have confidence you can do better. You would have a room in my flat, occasionally escort me out, and be at my beck and call at all hours. You would still be allowed to shoot people—I wouldn’t deny you that,” That self-satisfied smile of his was back in full force, “And you would get the same pay, for now. But you wouldn’t have to live in that gloomy little flat. It is also a significant promotion, in terms of power and influence. You’d be looked up to again. Admired. You must miss that, Colonel.” Jim was right, he did miss that. He despised being the target of pity or contempt, missed having people look at him with envy and respect as he guided his subordinates. Jim hadn’t said this would be a position of command, but he’d be working directly under the head of the organization, at least, as opposed to Ginger. The lure of, not just a decent flat, but a posh one was considerable too. He was certain a man in a designer suit wouldn’t abide stained carpets or roach infested walls. He wouldn’t mind the use of hardwood floors and stainless steel appliances. If living side-by-side with Jim was the price of that, then he wouldn’t complain.

“Alright,” Sebastian said, “I agree. So, do I sign something, or is this it?”

“Oh no. Papers just take up space and leave trails. I deal in verbal contracts. I’m certain I can hold you to your word.” Standing up, the Irishman smoothed his coat jacket and fixed his collar. “I’ll have a driver pick you and your things up tonight. You don’t have bedbugs, do you?”

“Not that I know of,” That was fast. Mirroring Jim, he stood up, following the criminal out of the office and down the hall to the warehouse’s second exit. A cab on the little gravel drive behind the warehouse grumbled into life. 

“Good. This is my ride,” Jim said, gesturing towards the car, “I’ll see you again shortly, Bastian. Don’t dilly dally packing. “


	11. Fly in the Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian moves in, and Jim answers a few burning questions.

The ride back to his flat seemed far shorter than the ride to the warehouse had been. This was a different sort of excitement, and laced with an uncertainty that he didn’t experience when he went out on a job. An hour or so ago, he had been lingering in the tension before the storm. Now the electric static had broken, and the world was moving around him faster than he could process. Jim had given him a lot to consider: the shared aspects of their past, his poorly calibrated moral compass, how his life would look now, living with a man who had built a career on murder and manipulation. And those fucking eyes and the adder’s smile still lingered in his mind. 

He packed his things in a daze, aware that he should be doing half a dozen things—cancelling services, giving notice to his landlord, finding out if he should change his address or get a P.O. box. But at this point, it felt as though everything would simply fall into place on its own. Most of his things—clothes, toiletries and the like—he shoved into his duffle bag. The odds and ends in his kitchen cupboards and drawers he loaded into a garbage bag and brought out to the curb. Less than an hour had passed when he called for the driver again. It felt liberating to lock the door to his flat for the last time.

It was hours after sunset. Sebastian had never found London’s light pollution particularly appealing, but as the driver took him into the heart of the city, for once he was struck with the charm the tourists found in the place—the bright lights, the after-eight bustle of people going for late dinners, or to clubs and bars. Unlike the low-slung warrens of his old borough, there were tall buildings here, an abundance of shops and upscale restaurants. Theatres, even. The cab entered SoHo, and Sebastian could remember the streets he had walked through, hungover, just yesterday. They had just passed west of where Sebastian was sure White Horse was, when the driver pulled up before one of the buildings. There was a clothes shop on street level, and what looked like five or six floors of flats above it. He indicated a plain black door. 

“He says for you to just buzz zero, and someone will let you in,” The driver said, and shouldering his bag, Sebastian got out of the cab with a word of thanks. There was a small keypad on the wall of the door’s alcove, and Sebastian pressed the zero. Somewhere in the room beyond a bell buzzed, and within seconds the door was opened by a middle aged woman in black and white wingtips.

“Good evening, Mr. Moran,” Her voice cut a line between cordial and cold. Her eyes skipped from the scar that marked his cheek and nose to the worn hem of his t-shirt, his distinctly military duffle bag, down to assess the weathering of his boots. The once over might have set him on edge, but he was eager to the point of impatience, and after being fixed with Jim’s gaze, this felt like a pale imitation. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixing themselves back on his face. She reached into her trouser pocket and removed a card in a metal-lined paper sleeve. 

“Here’s your key card to enter the building,” Sebastian accepted the card, sliding it into his wallet, “And for the remainder of the month, the entry code is 571-892. Remember it. 571-892. The room you’re looking for is number 34. The stairs are just there to the left.” She pointed down the short entry hall to a stairwell, “My name is Ms. Halifax, and if you or your employer needs anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She moved to the side, and Sebastian shot her a smile. Too sunny to be professional, probably, but he didn’t give a damn. This was the best night he’d had in recent memory, stress and deception of the faked job included. 

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Halifax. Have a good night.” The entry code was already threatening to slip out of his mind, and Sebastian had to repeat it to himself under his breath as he took the stairs. Three flights up, he opened the door on the third storey landing. The hall was windowless, with four doors along it, two on either side, all dark wood floors and light fixtures that weren’t quite bright enough. 34 was the last door on the left. No hesitation, just animal eagerness. He closed the distance in ten strides and knocked. 

Standing back, he readjusted his bag and sweatshirt, as though he could make a better impression. Probably too late for that. Sebastian could hear a soft movement, and then the door opened. Brows quirking up, Sebastian stared at Jim, but Jim didn’t seem eager to fix him with a look in return. 

“You’ve been ages. I thought you’d forgotten me.” The man was no longer wearing his crisp suit. His hair was free of hair gel. Without the clothes, and without Jim looking directly at him, he looked like a different man. The odd lilt that went deeper than his accent still hung in his voice, but with his hair fluffy, wearing a flannel robe open over blue silk pyjamas, he looked almost soft. Unassuming. Knowing that this man—a fucking librarian with a pet Scottie—was the same person who, hours before, had glibly talked about engineering the murder of a child, was disconcerting. 

“I was fast.” Forty-five minutes to pack away a previous life was good time in his book. 

“You own two pairs of shoes,” Jim turned, moving deeper into the flat. In contrast to the hallway, the room was bright and modern, an open floorplan with track lighting in the kitchen, stainless steel appliances, bamboo floors. There was a section of tall windows across from the couch, muffled by wood curtains. The place looked lifted from a home décor magazine. Probably just as professionally designed as Jim’s suits. 

“Speaking of shoes, don’t wear any in the house. I’d give you a tour, but there’s not much to see…” Hastily, Sebastian bent to untie his boots, setting them down on the mat beside the door before straightening, hitching up his bag. “Main room, television—volume not above 15—kitchen: coffee maker, tea, cream,” Jim was drifting through the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, not waiting for Sebastian to catch up or come closer, “You can eat as you like. In the hall, the first door is your bathroom, the second is your room, the one at the end is my room. No peeking. I’m sure you have no complaints, considering the disgusting conditions you’ve been living in.”

“Yeah, cheers,” Sebastian said, running a hand through his hair as he looked the place over, tearing his eyes off Jim for just a moment longer. No complaints at all.

“Take your bag into your bedroom. Then I’m sure you’ve come up with some questions, so if you’re positively bursting, you can come back out here and we can do a proper Q and A.” The Irishman settled in a chair cattycorner to the sofa, looking across at him. Sebastian saw it again now. Despite the ruffled hair and socked feet, the sharp angles of Jim’s personality were still visible in the depths of his eyes and the set of his mouth. He had been foolish to think that they would disappear just because Jim was at home.

He turned down the hall, entering into the second door on the left. His bedroom, like the main room, was sparsely but elegantly decorated; it had a nice dresser, curtains on the windows, a fucking black and white canvas print of some birds. He was beginning to think that Jim had simply made himself at home in a model flat. Depositing his duffle bag on the floor, he moved back out into the main room, seating himself on the couch, close to Jim’s chair. The man leaned back, smiling as though he had just made a bad move at draughts. One jump closer to death. 

“So, how did you figure out it was me?” Sebastian asked after several seconds of silence, “That day, at the bar.” Jim sighed, letting his head loll back.

“That is very disappointing. I assumed you had already figured it out. No? The security camera by the pawn shop. I was watching. I saw you run out of the alley. You noticed. You looked directly at the camera,” The memory resurfaced. He had seen a little flash of motion that he had registered but ignored once he identified it, “And I rarely forget a face. You have a memorable one, even without the scars.”

“Right. Makes sense. Same thing in the fake mission earlier tonight? Watching me on your laptop through hidden cameras.”

“Just so. I do enjoy a controlled test. And watching you sneak around that empty room was hilarious… Nice technique, though. I enjoyed it. Good athleticism. Sprinting, diving behind things… It was a pleasure to watch.” Jim’s mouth curled up into a less chilly but just as predatory smile, and Sebastian’s shoulders tugged back just a little, back straightening. His fingers itched at the palm of his hand.

“So, running me through my paces.”

“Exactly. Anything else chewing you up?” Those had been his two biggest questions, but there were a few more things playing on his mind.

“I’m curious. Looking at the stuff on the mobile, your network seems quite large. Just how big is it?” Jim’s smile broadened. A little bit of open-ended flattery didn’t hurt anything, looked like. 

“Multinational. By far the largest criminal network in the UK. Of course, I’m not strictly the head of all of it. No, no… That would be too much work. Too much time spent organizing boring things. But connected subsidiaries, really. They are all subordinate to me. I can gather information, money and influence from all of them, but I don’t have to bother with governing them. Lets me have more fun.” 

“And what is it you do for fun?” He was rewarded with a flash of teeth. The corners of Jim’s eyes crinkled.

“Solve problems.”


	12. Consulting Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian realizes he's totally fucked.

“Solve problems. Like Katie Mullins.”

“Well, yes…” Jim dragged out the word, face contorting, “That’s one piece of the pie. That’s a very limited view, though. Just a bit of what I have on my plate; people want someone gotten rid of—someone they dislike, someone who has gotten in their way or knows too much—I tell them how to go about it. For personal jobs, I only provide the plan. They have to do the dirty work themselves. I can’t have dozens of men sneaking into houses every week. It’s just not practical. And shooting everyone would be dull.” And yet Jim did have a whole battalion of men at his command. 

“So, people like me who you hire—“

“My common ruffians.” 

“—are for dealing with the rest of the criminal class? Drug rings, weapons and information trading. Things like that.”

“Very good, Sebastian,” Jim crooned, “Though a bit obvious, given the pretend job I sent you on. Go on. I’m sure you can guess at some of the things I do. How it all works.” The full weight of Jim’s attention was fixed on him, eyes glittering bright as any jay’s as he tilted his head to the side. It was fucking pathetic, but he really wanted to impress Jim. He gave himself as long as he dared to think before starting.

“You mentioned subsidiaries earlier. Sub-networks. I’m sure you didn’t make them all yourself. You don’t enjoy that sort of management, and you said your network is multinational. So you probably acquired them. You wouldn’t seek them out to absorb or send men there to infiltrate and depose the leaders. Too militaristic. Too much boring work. You began advertising yourself as a resource at some point ages ago, and these organizations came to you with their problems. How to smuggle the drugs from the source to the consumer. How to avoid government detection. Shit like that. And you were good, so your price was high. I’m guessing you gave them a choice for how to pay. Either they pay out the nose, but just the once, or they indebt themselves to you. And maybe you took it one step further after that—you help whenever they run into a problem, and in return they recognize your long-range control. You get a cut of the profits or something. Influence. And you never have to send your own men over there. Anyone monitoring the group wouldn’t notice a change in leadership, because you kept the hierarchy of each of these groups intact, right? Even the grunts wouldn’t have to know. Silent takeover. And the more you acquire, the deeper your roots go; more people reach out for your help. And then you have a few intermediaries like Ging—eh, Rodger.” Jim was still watching him with that same intensity. It raised gooseflesh on his arms, but there was something appealing about it. His continued interest was probably a good sign, so Sebastian pressed on.

“People like Rodger. I’m guessing he’s one of the heads of operations in London. You probably have others who have ears out in other regions, to supplement your own. Looking at the rules and numbers on the mobile you gave me, I’m guessing you’re their sole contact. They don’t know each other. If one of the intermediaries turns, they can only give information on you and the branch they controlled. Ordinary grunts like me only know the intermediary, maybe a few other guys, if you ever do team jobs. So you can identify the source of a leak and stop it with minimal damage. So you’re probably involved in that way with pretty much every illegal niche in the market. And the problems you solve are for the sub-organizations; making their lives easier. Or the lives of the leaders.” He’d run out of steam, but Sebastian felt fairly certain that he had gotten the gist of it, and his eyes tracked over Jim, searching for some sign of approval or appreciation. The laugh lines around the corners of Jim’s eyes were back for a moment.

“Very good, Sebastian.” The praise hit his veins like an injection of adrenaline and Sebastian felt himself swell with pride. It had been years since he had felt that immediate surge of gratification. The corner of Jim’s mouth tugged up. Must have read that clear as a billboard. “You are clever. You’ve got it. Most of it, anyway. I don’t dabble in accruing political power, but I do like to worm my way into MI5’s files. Just to see what they’re up to. But I suppose that’s more of a hobby than part of the business.” Sebastian chuckled at the ridiculousness of that statement. Jim arched his eyebrows, smiling impishly. 

“Impressed, Sebby?” The nickname didn’t even catch him off guard. 

“Difficult not to be.” 

“Good,” Jim rose to his feet. All feline grace and smugness, he took a step forward, reducing the distance between them to virtually nothing, standing between Sebastian’s knees. Something like a heat rash spread over Sebastian’s face, down his neck and chest as he looked up into Jim’s face. Sebastian watched as Jim reached out; felt his finger brush, cool and soft, over the bridge of his nose to his cheekbone, tracing his scar. “I think we’re going to have fun,” The man murmured, fingers sliding down to curl under his jaw, just holding him there for a moment. It was an intimate gesture. Sebastian remained perfectly still through its duration, half holding his breath, unsure what to think. Unable to think. Jim’s thumb grazed his pulse point and pressed. He knew damn well it was placebo effect—the pressure wasn’t great enough to do much to cut off blood flow—but a thread of dizzy head rush chased through his brain. After a long moment, Jim dropped his hand. 

“Go settle in and get some sleep, Sebastian. You’ll have work tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll want to be in top form. Don’t worry about your old flat. I’ll take care of everything.” Turning, the criminal started down the hallway, and Sebastian watched him go, “Night-night.” 

“Goodnight,” He answered. The moment the door to Jim’s bedroom clicked shut, he collapsed back into the sofa, pressing his hands over his face. He could still feel the ghost of Jim’s hand on his neck and jaw. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he pushed himself to his feet, walking to his bedroom. 

He unpacked his few belongings, sorting them away in the dresser and closet, lining his shampoo and soap up in the little niche in the shower, before brushing his teeth and stripping down to his shirt and pants, collapsing onto the deliciously soft mattress. The sheets were higher thread-count than any he had slept in since he was a kid, but despite that, Sebastian couldn’t quite manage to get comfortable. Jim’s fingers were still drifting over his skin. Just one more part of him intent on finding a permanent place in his subconscious. He’d never been much of one for crushes. Short bursts of lust were much more his pace. Sebastian wished he could write away the heat that had climbed into his veins at Jim’s touch as just that, but it was a deeper, more intense sort of high. He couldn’t think how to name it properly, but the end result was clear enough. He was fucked. Utterly fucked.


	13. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian finds a new bar and does his best to get over his infatuation before he does something stupid.

Sebastian woke up at 7:00 the next morning to an empty flat. Everything dead silent. He assumed at first that Jim was just late to rise, and made a pot of coffee before going to check his phone, only to find he had received a text from the criminal. 

‘I had to run. Busy day. I don’t need you underfoot. But I left you a present in the entryway, and you have a job. –JM’ 

In the current jobs folder, there was a fresh file. Just an address outside city limits, a map with a red pin labelled ‘SM’ and a photograph. Coffee in hand, Sebastian moved out into the entryway, feeling a flush of excitement rise in his chest. A plastic case and a Gore-Tex bag big enough to stash it in sat against the wall. Putting down his coffee, Sebastian crouched before the case, unlatching it. Inside, nestled in foam, was a sleek black rifle, fit with a silencer. An L115A3. A good, long-distance sharp-shooter. Fucking gorgeous. 

With childish glee he was glad Jim wasn’t there to see, he took the rifle out of its bedding, setting up the gun’s bipod before scrambling onto his belly. Head resting against the cheek piece, he looked down the scope. There was nothing much to focus on inside the flat, but Sebastian remained there a long moment, finger on the trigger, letting the conditioned calm of the gun wash over him. His breathing steadied. The world sharpened. He was back where he belonged. 

After working his way around each of the rifle’s features, he put it away, got dressed, made a bit of breakfast, then called the driver. The drive out to Chertsey took an hour. The hit took less than fifteen minutes: a clean shot right through the forehead a kilometre and a half away from the target. The first of many successful assassinations.

Even with Jim’s prohibition on drinking, Sebastian had been unable to kick the bar habit. With his pockets padded with his first month’s paycheque, he had been able to pick out a less shitty bar. He had found a place called Icarus tucked into a cosy corner of SoHo, and he went there every Friday and Saturday night. Watching the other patrons drink made him sour for the loss of his gin and whiskey, but there was still something about the atmosphere of the bar he liked. Just enough patrons to blend in, but not so many that he felt assailed by too much information; pretty people, shallow conversations. And anyway, it gave him a chance to spend some evenings out of the house. He needed a distraction from Jim, to prevent him from doing something stupid. 

The man’s appeal had not lessened in the four weeks he had worked for him. The sniper had been hoping that as time wore on the infatuation would fade and disappear, but for now it was a thorn in his side. Jim wasn’t even a good roommate. He had fits at people over the phone, he threw out all of Sebastian’s clothes, and he took unreasonably long showers that used up all the hot water in the flat. But one acerbic remark, a casual gesture of his fingers, the inviting, questioning tilt of his head, and Sebastian was done. His porn preferences had responded dramatically, veering towards people with dark hair and sharp eyes, doms and dominatrixes with clever hands. At very least he needed to break his five-year dry streak. Maybe that would help.

In the dim warmth of the bar lights, nursing a seltzer water, Sebastian watched a couple dozen of the other patrons dancing and scoped out people to talk to. People to fuck. He felt attuned to every glance and whisper cast his way. Hyperaware, maybe. Made him a bit twitchy, but fuck if he wasn’t going to exploit it. A woman with dark, curly hair was leaning against the wall next to a friend, chatting and giving him occasional glances. Another, with vampy makeup and an angular bob was sipping a gin a few stools down, and was turned at a thirty degree angle towards him. Might appreciate some company. And there was a cute blond guy in tight trousers chatting up the DJ. Sebastian had yet to make a move on anyone when the curly haired woman slid onto a bar stool at his side. That was a nice surprise.

“My friend and I were having a debate. She thinks you’re a footballer. I told her there wasn’t a chance. I’ve never seen a footballer with shoulders like yours. I think you play rugby. Who’s right?” 

They fucked in the alley behind Icarus, which somehow was nicer than the interior of Tully’s. He had offered to get them a hotel room—he was not so stupid as to try and take anyone back to Jim’s flat—but she said she liked the exposure, and the thrill that went with it. He couldn’t argue with that. It was rough and fast and thorough, and she came silently, her teeth buried in the crook of his neck. Sebastian was out of practice; he couldn’t help but groan, nose tucked against her ear. It was good. It was exactly the sort of thing he liked, and the best he could have hoped for. Breathless with pleasure, Sebastian watched the curve of her hips as she left him to re-join her friend inside. But there was still a voice clawing at the back of his mind. 

Anything else chewing you up? Remember me? I was watching you. 

Sebastian looked up, scanning the roofs and walls of the surrounding buildings, heart hammering faster at the thought that Jim might have been watching him through some security camera. But there was nothing. Jim was probably busy anyway. He always had phone calls to make weekend nights. 

Mission accomplished, Sebastian walked the few blocks back to Mayfair, buzzing himself into the building and taking the stairs back up to the flat. Jim, in a flannel robe, was sprawled out on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs, mobile within arm’s reach. Sebastian looked him over. Bad sign. Jim never seemed to wear plaid when he was in a good mood, and his hair was too ruffled from tugging the front locks. The Irishman’s eyes latched onto him, expression unchanging. And despite all his efforts that evening, a shiver still chased down Sebastian’s spine to settle in his groin as the man’s eyes dragged up and down his body. 

“Is that how you actually like it? I should have known. Obvious, really. How eager you were to perform a nearly impossible job. How happy you are to risk your life… Not just an idea with you, is it? A true glutton for pain.” Jim’s tongue slid over his upper teeth, before he fell silent, though a wicked smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sebastian got a gut-twisting feeling that Jim had found out about the porn. 

“Watching me again, were you?” Sebastian asked as he moved to take off his shoes. He had not seen a camera, but there was always a chance he had missed one. 

“No. Don’t be so self-absorbed. I can see it. Your palms have a brick impression on them. Your fly is open. And there isn’t a condom in your back pocket anymore. Anyway, Moran, you have teeth marks on your neck.” Sebastian’s fingers touched the still smarting place where the woman’s teeth had dug into his skin, though his attention was more fixed on Jim than on the sensation as the criminal continued on, “I bet she was beautiful. Aggressive. Intelligent. Dark eyes. You have a type, I think. Though I am cheating… I have been monitoring your internet activity. Just in case.” Sebastian felt blood rise to his face but that was nothing compared to the heat pooling in his chest and belly. Jim knew. A month of his best efforts, and Jim could read him like a book. 

Jim closed his laptop and stood, sliding his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown. He looked far more dangerous than he should have in bare feet and flannel: composed and unreadable, despite the messy hair. But he had found out weeks ago that Jim didn’t just wear clothes, he wore attitudes too. He could be just as much the devil in footed pyjamas as he could in Westwood. 

There was a light in Jim’s eyes, like stars reflected from the bottom of a well, cold and disjointed. Sebastian suppressed another shiver. He looked inhuman and mad as ever, and it made the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck stand up. The sniper had tried to dull the sharpness of his desire, but he wanted to throw himself at him, and see if he couldn’t cut himself on the edges of Jim’s mind. The Irishman cocked his head. Sebastian had seen that subtle invitation before: half a dare, half scientific curiosity. ‘Let’s see, then, Tiger,’ He imagined Jim saying. The voice felt comfortable in his head. It had made a home for itself there. ‘What now? Are you going to impress me?’ Fuck yes, he was.  



	14. Sunken Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets what's coming to him.

Decision made, Sebastian lunged forward, grabbing Jim and tugging him close, one hand on his shoulder, one on Jim’s cheek. He got an impression of warm, stubble-rough skin and soft flannel over the muscles of Jim’s shoulder; the scent of mint gum and a whiff of sandalwood. It was fleeting. Pressing in for a kiss, he was answered by a knee to the groin. Agony. Sebastian doubled over, cupping himself as he swallowed the wave of nausea that chased into his belly, the air leaving his lungs in a single wheezing breath. 

“Fuck---” Jim rolled his eyes.

“Oh, Moran. Really? That was your move?” Sebastian heard the sigh and could imagine the shoulder slump that accompanied it, even though his eyes were on the floor, “I’m disappointed in you. Really, I am. I’m not sure what I expected, but something interesting. Not that.” He would have felt shame had he not been in so much pain. It would come back to bite at him later. 

Jim’s bare feet came into his field of view, stopping a hand-span from his knee. Gathering himself, Sebastian looked up. The Irishman tutted, lifting a hand to card through Sebastian’s hair, nails scraping along his scalp. Despite the pain, Sebastian couldn’t help but shiver. Jim smiled in return, icicle sharp. His hand slid lower to cradle Sebastian’s cheek and draw the sniper’s head to rest against his thigh. Sebastian pressed his forehead against the firm muscle, too absorbed by pain and humiliation to do anything but accept any modicum of comfort Jim was willing to dole out. 

“You have been a good boy, Sebastian. Following orders, not asking too many stupid questions,” The criminal said, “But we can’t have you getting ideas above your station now, can we?” Sebastian stayed still and silent, concentrating on regulating his breathing. If Jim wanted to monologue he would let him. At this stage, he wasn’t interested in trying to hold any sort of conversation, though. There was a long pause, and then Jim repeated again, “Can we?” Not rhetorical then, apparently. 

“No sir,” He answered, “I’m sorry.” 

“You'll have to do better than that.” The blood rose to Sebastian’s cheeks and he gritted his teeth. Fucking hell. Did Jim want him to grovel? He had already gotten what was coming to him. But Jim must have felt his jaw muscles tense, because his fingers tightened in Sebastian’s hair. It was the gentlest warning Sebastian could hope to receive. With some effort, he relaxed his jaw, kept his eyes down. 

“I’m sorry I tried to kiss you. It was inappropriate, given who you are. It won’t happen again.” 

“Good,” Jim patted Sebastian’s cheek then drew back, turning away. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his robe, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sebastian gathered himself, swallowed hard, and then rose with a grunt, standing before smoothing out his trousers. Jim wasn’t looking at him anymore. He seemed to be studying his cuticles, but Sebastian suspected that to leave before he had been dismissed at this point would just start a one-sided argument that he was not in the mood to put up with. Sebastian was beginning to think the man didn’t intend to say anything at all when he finally spoke.

“It’s not as though I’ve never considered it, Tiger,” Jim said. His dark eyes slid up to Sebastian’s face, “But the execution was… less than stellar. Don’t just try to kiss me out of nowhere—cram me up against you like one of your club girls…”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” But Sebastian couldn’t ignore the suggestion in that statement. He wasn’t the only one who had thoughts drifting into his mind at inopportune times. Jim thought about it too. Maybe when he was sending Sebastian out on missions, or watching him move through the kitchen in the evenings. It wasn’t the kiss that bothered him, only the execution. And he could change that far more easily than he might try and change Jim’s opinion of him. Even through the pain and shame, the thought kept a fire burning in him.

“Now,” Jim slid his hands into his pockets, turning away, “You’ll be escorting me out tomorrow. Look presentable. But not formal. You should aim for inconspicuous.” Sebastian cleared his throat and shifted, trying to shake off the haze that had fallen over his mind in the aftermath of the attempted kiss.

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian answered, “Where is it that we’re headed?” 

“Above your pay grade, honey. Asking questions isn’t in your job description.” No surprises there. Still, just escorting Jim out somewhere was a treat. He might be a bodyguard in name, but thus far he had rarely served as more than a hitman. It would be a nice change of pace.


	15. Interests Abroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim and Sebastian travel to Brussels

Three pairs of his trousers were missing. How the fuck that had happened was completely beyond Sebastian. He wouldn’t have even noticed, except for the fact that he only had five pairs, and so the gap in his closet was very noticeable. Jim was the only possible explanation. Disturbing—the thought that the man could slip into his room and rifle through his closet without alerting him. Without a few shots of gin, he was generally a light sleeper. 

Selecting an oxford shirt and one of his remaining pairs of trousers, Sebastian showered, and then walked out into the main room. Jim was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a mug of coffee. A suitcase and Sebastian’s duffle bag sat near his feet. 

“Are we going on a trip?” Sebastian asked as he moved into the kitchen to empty the coffee decanter into his own mug, walking around the counter to face Jim. Given the way things had resolved themselves last night, he had no intention of mentioning his fuckup again, if he could help it.

“Good job on dressing nicely for airport security, Sebastian,” Jim answered, giving him a slow once-over, “I packed for you. You never get up early enough…” 

“You want me to wake up earlier than seven? Because I can.” Jim’s mouth curled.

“So eager to please. I mean you always wake up at seven. Never early enough that you might have time to pack for our flight today.”

“Was wondering where all my trousers went.”

“I’m glad you care enough about your clothes now that you actually notice when they go missing. Because I’m certain you didn’t before…”

“Didn’t have anywhere to go before,” Sebastian pointed out, downing the rest of his mug of coffee before going to rinse it out in the sink, “Speaking of, you planning on telling me where we’re going now, boss? Or is it still a surprise.” Jim smiled faintly, extending his own empty cup out to Sebastian for the man to take and clean. 

“I told you already. It’s not your job to ask questions. But there is a plane ticket in the side pocket of your duffle bag, if you’re absolutely dying to know. And your passport is there too, if you wanted to take a peek, Samuel Williams. ” There was a degree of amusement in Jim’s voice, but if they were flying anywhere, Sebastian wasn’t really in the habit of going blindly. It didn’t matter, exactly. He would follow Jim wherever the man went, but there was no point in making his blind loyalty so obvious. He crouched by the duffle bag to draw out a sheet of paper with the flight information and a scanner bar. It was a 10:15 to Brussels. 

“Brussels?” 

“Belgium is a beautiful country,” Jim said, voice a little too monotone. Sebastian dug around in the pocket, pulling out a passport. British. Fake. Still, the craftsmanship was flawless, and Sebastian couldn’t help but turn it over in his hands and flip through the pages, already marked by several entry and exit stamps. The photograph looked lifted from his actual passport. Very convincing. But they weren’t minors trying to get a drink. 

“This will pass muster?” He asked, holding up the fake passport, “With the chip, and everything?” The look that Jim shot him was stony.

“Don’t doubt me, Sebastian. Just remember the information. Your name is Samuel Williams. Born the 20th of January 1981 in Colchester. Read it, remember it. And you’re to call me Thomas whenever we’re in public. I’m not going to let you ruin this.”

“Yes, sir.” He’d have to remember not to openly express uncertainty again.

“Good boy,” That was the second time Jim had called him that. Like he was a dog: simultaneously loyal and prone to witless destruction. It should have been an insult, but maybe it wasn’t entirely inaccurate, “Do it quickly. We’re leaving in ten minutes. “

Jim sat in the back of the car with him while they rode to the airport, but Sebastian didn’t try to engage the man in conversation, or ask why it was they were going to Brussels. He was aching with curiosity, and this was his last chance to ask before they found someplace private in Brussels; Jim certainly wouldn’t want to hint at any of their plans in the airport or on the plane, where there was a danger of being overheard. But having been scolded for his nosiness so recently, he kept his mouth shut. The criminal had his attention fixed on his mobile anyway. Given how tightly he was glued to the thing, Sebastian found it difficult to imagine him putting it away, even for the one and a half hour duration of the flight. No smart comments, though, particularly after last night. 

And of course, it had turned out he was wrong to doubt Jim. They breezed through the airport in record speed, arriving at the gate fifteen minutes ahead of boarding. Jim, as it turned out, had purchased a first class ticket for himself. Sebastian was stuck in coach. Not that he would generally care. He was used to noise and people, crying babies and cramped living conditions, and it was less than two hours anyway. Still, seeing Jim sipping a glass of champagne while he had to push fifteen rows back was annoying on principle. Probably intentional, to see how he’d react to the clear reminder of their difference in power. Like he needed reminding after last night.

The plane docked at the gate a little after noon, and Sebastian disembarked with his carry on to find Jim waiting at the end of the jet bridge, cell phone in hand. The man’s smile told Sebastian everything he needed to know about whether his plane seat had been an intentional snub.

“How did you enjoy your time in steerage, Samuel?” He asked, nudging the handle of his suitcase towards Sebastian. Automatically, he took it, turning to walk into the airport, shoulder to shoulder with the criminal. 

“It was fine. I’ve had shittier experiences. I would have liked to participate in the complimentary alcohol, though.”

“You’re dry now, remember, Sam?” Jim’s eyes glinted, too cold for a real smile. 

“Yeah, I know. All the more reason to want to participate,” Sebastian said, turning his attention to the signs guiding them out of the airport, “Have you hired a driver for us, or…?” Jim hummed in agreement. 

“The hotel provides drivers. He should be just down here…” They moved down an escalator and into a broad hallway, where several drivers holding placards were clustered, “It’s under my name. Thomas Kelly. Ah, there we are…” 

Sebastian picked out the man holding the correct placard out of the crowd a few seconds after Jim, and followed the Irishman towards him. Sebastian had taken French, and at one time had been nearly fluent. But that had been years ago, and the words that came out of Jim’s mouth upon approaching the driver were too fast and too fluid for him to decode more than the introduction. The sniper could only presume that Jim had confirmed the driving arrangements, because within several seconds, the driver had turned, and he was following Jim out of the airport and into the overcast chill of an early December day. Not nearly as big a change from London weather as he might have hoped.


	16. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim and Sebastian take a walk through the city.

Sebastian was seated on the couch. Particularly considering just how posh the hotel was, and how much Jim must have shelled out to book this suite of rooms, Sebastian couldn’t help but feel he had gotten the short end of the stick without any real cause. The suite was arranged like a small apartment: a bedroom with an en-suite, a kitchenette and living space, with a half bathroom off the main room. From the two second glimpse he had caught of the bedroom before Jim had slipped inside and shut the door behind him, Sebastian could only conclude that the bed was the biggest and plushest on the entire continent. By default, he was relegated to the couch. 

Jim had disappeared into the bedroom twenty minutes ago. Sebastian was watching television. French. English subtitles. He still had no idea what the fuck they were doing. He had already searched through the bag Jim had packed for him, but its contents were perfectly innocuous. Stuff anyone might pack for a business trip. No gun, for obvious reasons, but that meant nothing. If Jim needed to get his hands on a gun, he could. Any country, any time. It couldn’t just be a normal job, though. The way Jim had explained the network, he had enough agents abroad that anything basic could be delegated to them. This was something that warranted Jim’s personal attention, or required some degree of privacy. That narrowed the possibilities, but not by much. It left him just where Jim seemed to want him—in the dark. 

It was a full thirty minutes before Jim stepped back out into the main room, fresh-faced, cleanly shaved, and dressed in a pastel pink button-up. His hair wasn’t slicked back with even half so much severity as it usually was, and for one heartbeat, when Jim cracked a smile, Sebastian saw a different man. It was not an unfamiliar illusion, though, and the smile was gone in a flash, his face falling back into neutral. 

“I’m glad you managed to keep yourself entertained, Sebastian. You didn’t want to freshen up? Clean off the coach grime?” Sebastian shrugged.

“It wasn’t even two hours. And I’m still one of the common men. I know that. But if you want me to change, I will.” Jim seemed satisfied with that response, and he turned away, glancing in the mirror on the living room wall and touching up his hair. 

“It’s fine. You know Sebastian, I was considering not bringing you along for this. I don’t predict there will be any trouble. You could have stayed home and watched the flat. Then I realized the flat is probably safer without you in it. And I don’t mind a bit of protection while I’m abroad. But don’t expect a lot of excitement.” The ex-soldier shrugged again. 

“Yeah. Judging by the clothes you brought for me, I didn’t figure you were going to have me chasing after people or getting into fist fights.” He was tempted to ask again what they were there for, but remembering Jim’s previous reaction to that line of questioning, he bit down the impulse. Jim seemed to see the curiosity lingering in Sebastian’s face, though, and finally he responded to it. 

“I’m here on personal business, Sebastian. Only indirectly related to the network. If I only had the network in mind, I would never have needed to come here.” That didn’t illuminate too much, but still, even in Jim’s small admission, Sebastian felt as though he were being invited closer. The criminal had taken him along on something that he considered personal. Especially given his misjudgement the other night, he could only take that as a good sign. Jim couldn’t be holding that much of a grudge. Though maybe his continued existence should have clued him in to that much. 

“Yeah, alright, boss,” He answered, not quite able to disguise how chuffed he was, “Whatever it is you need. No questions asked.”

“So you are capable of learning. Good.” 

“I hope so. Otherwise I wasted a lot of money at Oxford for a sheet of paper.” Jim raised his eyebrows.

“I know. And look where it’s gotten you.” Sebastian laughed. Fair point. He had never found opportunity to put his English degree to professional use before he had enlisted, and now it seemed unlikely that he ever would. 

“If you want my expert opinion on any Modernist literature—T.S. Eliot, Hemingway, Faulkner—I’ll prove at least that the lessons got through my skull.”

“If it ever becomes relevant…” Smoothing down his shirt front, Jim picked up his coat from the closet by the door, and Sebastian followed suit, zipping up his jacket and holding the door open for Jim.

Cold and gloomy as the weather was, the city was prepared for Christmas. Sebastian walked shoulder to shoulder with Jim, past a large market square filled with stalls vending ornaments and decorations. The air smelled of frying oil, nutmeg and pine. Rich and spicy. His stomach tightened with hunger. 

The market was packed with people, sound, and flashing lights, which would have discouraged exploration even if Jim didn’t seem intent on moving on quickly. The press and chaos was enough to make Sebastian’s nerves prickle, and he drew marginally closer to Jim—alert. The criminal only drifted away, maintaining their distance. 

“Don’t crowd me, Sam.”

“Right, sorry.” Fighting instinct, he pulled away. 

Sebastian had no idea where they were heading: uninformed of the plan and unfamiliar with the layout of the city. Jim must have either visited Brussels before or else studied a map, because without pause or consulting his phone for directions, he cut a quick path across the city. After walking four blocks, Sebastian was beginning to wonder why they hadn’t taken a train. By ten, he was left assuming they were on a poorly paced tourist jaunt.

After twenty minutes, Jim turned on his heel to face a café, mincing through the spaces between the tables and seating himself, gesturing for Sebastian to follow suit. He did, glancing around at the other thinly populated tables and rubbing his hands together, urging the chill out of his fingers. 

“Thomas,” Sebastian said haltingly, remembering Jim’s assumed name at the last possible moment, though he could not imagine what difference it made now they were out of the airport, “We passed a lot of cafés before we got to this one.” It wasn’t a direct question, and so Sebastian assumed Jim couldn’t get too bad-tempered over it. Sure enough, Jim only nodded and signalled the waitress standing in the restaurant doorway.

“I wanted to go to this one.” His smile was innocent and sunny. It had been worth a shot, anyway. 

“Coffee good here?” Jim’s smile was guileless, as he met Sebastian’s eyes for just a moment before shifting his attention to the waitress as she approached.

The criminal ordered two cups of coffee in his pristine French—Sebastian remembered enough of his lessons that he could interpret that much—before leaning back in his seat, looking idly across the street. After a couple minutes of silence, the waitress returned with steaming ceramic mugs of black coffee, a little pot of cream, and a handful of crisply wrapped sugar cubes. She was about to turn away, but Jim stopped her with a raised hand, ordering pastries.

When they both had matching plates of glossy viennoiserie, shaped like scallop shells and plump with apples and cinnamon, Jim began to doctor his coffee, one eye still lingering on the other side of the street. Sebastian raised his own mug to his mouth, taking a sip. It was stronger and more darkly roasted than he was used to, and so he surrendered and borrowed the cream, pouring until it bloomed back up to the surface of the coffee. Jim’s cup already looked like it was more full of milk than coffee. Above the skyline, the clouds were still thick and grey; the air felt ready for snow, and for just a few minutes, Sebastian let himself relax and pretend that he really was just on a European holiday with his boss.


	17. Catch Me If  You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian begins to discover what the hell is going on.

He went through the pastry and two more cups of coffee while Jim was still working on his first. Nearly an hour had passed without Jim exchanging more than a few too-casual pleasantries with him. Sebastian had almost begun to suspect they were only there for a snack and a drink, except for the way the Irishman was watching the other side of the road—eyes flicking towards the door opposite every few seconds. Finally, Sebastian caught movement in his peripheral vision. He turned to look as the door opened. The toe of Jim’s shoe stroked up the side of his calf and Sebastian stiffened, attention snapping back to him. Worked better than a kick would have. 

“Oh, look, Sam. It’s snowing.” Jim was not looking at the sky, but sidelong at the building across the street. Still, Sebastian humoured him. Clearly they weren’t both allowed to look. Ash-fine snow had started to drift down from the low-hanging clouds.

“Look at that.” It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch—being so close to a piece of the puzzle that might explain why they were there, but having to stare daftly up at the sky instead. It was too bad the coffee mugs didn’t provide any sort of reflective surface, and the windows of the café were too brightly lit. Who the hell was it that he was so interested in? After a couple seconds, he dropped his eyes back to Jim. His heart jolted. 

There was a dark hunger in Jim’s face like he wanted to eat whoever had walked out that door whole. His eyes were bright and his lips were parted. His fingertips danced along the handle of his coffee cup, as though excitement he could only just contain was seething beneath his skin. In the past month, Sebastian had seen a good number of Jim’s moods, but never this one. It was so fucking gorgeous he almost didn’t mind it wasn’t directed at him. And then the light drained out of Jim’s face and for a second the criminal looked hurt.

Sebastian risked a glance across the street, but all he saw was a middle-aged man walking away down the sidewalk, and a uni-aged kid in a beanie heading the opposite way. If Jim noticed him looking, he didn’t say anything. His face was flat, but not quite schooled into airy indifference like Sebastian would have expected. 

“Everything alright, boss?” Jim didn’t even glance up as he fished out a few bills from his wallet, sliding them under his mostly empty coffee cup before rising to his feet. Sebastian followed him.

“Thomas?” 

“Quiet, Moran.” That shut him up. He had no fucking clue what had just happened to pop Jim’s balloon, but it must have been a crusher if he was dropping their assumed identities, even for a second. 

They took the metro back to the hotel. Jim was silent the whole trip. His expression was flinty, jaw tight as a mouse trap, but Sebastian could hear the servos whirring in his head. As much as he wanted to ask what the fuck had happened, he restrained himself. He wouldn’t push Jim too hard again. Personal business, the criminal had said. He must know the kid or the man. One of them was probably Jim’s reason for being there. But he hadn’t spoken to them, and Sebastian sure as hell didn’t hear either of them say anything. Twenty seconds, no words, and the criminal’s mood had taken a nosedive one hundred eighty degrees straight down. Jim was mercurial, but shit. 

Jim left the door into their suite hanging wide open. In the time it took Sebastian to close it and turn the bolt, the criminal had slipped into the bedroom and locked himself in. As though he would have tried to get in without Jim’s permission. There wasn’t anything to do. Sounded like Jim was pouring a bath, so Sebastian could only guess he wouldn’t be expected to leave for at least another hour. He settled himself on the couch and turned on the telly again—too alert from the caffeine to take a nap. He watched a Dutch-language comedy this time, though the translation drained a lot of the humour out of it.

Sebastian was hungry again and almost dozing off despite the coffee when Jim reemerged from the bedroom, face still serious but the fire rekindled in his eyes. A funny combination with his pink cheeks and water-pruned fingers. A white terrycloth hotel robe was cinched around his waist. He didn’t give Sebastian time to open his mouth.

“I failed to consider we might not be dealing with an angel. I’ve gotten so used to ordinary people.” Sebastian turned off the television to give Jim his undivided attention, raising an eyebrow. 

“You’re forgetting I have no fucking idea what happened.” 

“No? I assumed you would have pieced together something, Tiger. Tell me what you know. Prove you’re clever.” Jim slunk towards the sofa like a cat, curling up beside Sebastian with his legs tucked up under him. That was a challenge that the sniper couldn’t refuse. 

“I know that we came here so you could personally interact with someone who lives in that house across from the café. But you want to keep your presence here a secret. For now at least. He’s never seen your face. Something happened while we were having coffee. The man came out of the house and you were expecting something to happen. You were… excited for something to happen with him, but it didn’t. And you’ve been trying to figure out why things didn’t happen the way you wanted. But what do you mean, we’re not dealing with an angel?” A tiny feline smile curled Jim’s lips.

“Very good, Sebastian. So you can notice the world around you. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Jim’s fingers smoothed through his hair, preening. “The man—the older man—you snuck a peek at is named Hugo Maes. I did come here to see him, though he doesn’t really know it. Not yet, anyway.” 

“But you didn’t want me to look at him. Why not?”

“Because he was mine to look at.” Right. Of course. Made as much sense as any of Jim’s explanations. 

“So why are you interested in this guy?” Considering the look Jim had been wearing when he was watching the man, at least for the first few seconds, Sebastian was fighting to suppress a swell of jealousy.

“I’m always looking for people to play games with,” Jim said, “There aren’t many good players, so it takes a long, long while to find anyone worth bothering with--and sometimes a little bit of footwork. So they can prove themselves, and I can watch them do it.” 

“Games. Are we talking Hunger Games or Saw?” Jim pinned him with a cold look.

“Neither. Try again.” Sebastian considered that. Jim had mentioned that there was a tangential connection to the network, which operated almost entirely outside the notice of any law enforcement, as far as Sebastian was aware. He pressed his lips together. 

“I’m not sure.”

“Guess.” 

“Is it a ‘catch me if you can’ sort of game?” He was gifted another smile. 

“Good job. You’re not right. But you’re close enough.” 

“What did I get wrong, then?” Jim’s eyes and smile lit up like a carved pumpkin.

“I’d never actually let anyone get close enough to catch me.”


	18. The Desk Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets a little jealous.

“Tell me what you think of this,” Jim called from the living room. 

It was their third day in Brussels. Jim had refused to leave the hotel the day before. They’d ordered room service. Sebastian spat out a mouthful of toothpaste foam into the sink and crossed back into the main part of the suite, leaning over Jim’s shoulder as he sat in the armchair. He had his laptop in his lap with a website open. Some blend of a personal blog and a news blog. Blue and white. All in French. 

“Translate?” Jim rolled his eyes but pressed the browser’s translation button.

“Wipe your mouth.” Sebastian dragged the back of his hand over his lips as he skimmed the jumbled sentences. There were news articles, interspersed with text posts. All about various crimes. 

“These yours?” 

“Obviously not,” Jim scoffed, scrolling down through more posts, “Keep reading.”

The crimes were a grab-bag. Robbery. Murder. Attempted murder. Arson. Assault. A few years’ worth. Nothing out of the ordinary. The text posts, though, were something else. Details about victims and suspects based on information provided in the newspaper clippings about the crimes. Accusations of guilt. Suggestions on where the police should look next, or which steps they should take. And, inevitably, the text post was followed by another news article in which the police had made an arrest. It was an impressive list.

“This is Hugo’s blog?”

“That’s right.”

“Who is this guy? Private detective?” Jim shook his head.

“He’s currently working as a telemarketer.”

“So this is just a hobby of his?” 

“Fun, isn’t it? He has quite the following. ” Sebastian grunted. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. Why would someone with that kind of ability, interest and drive be working a dead end job instead of in criminal justice or as a private eye? 

“Are you sure this guy is legitimate, boss? Why is he a telemarketer?” 

“Oh, Sebastian, I did look into this,” Jim sighed, lip curling, “Did you think I just flew us both into Belgium the moment he came to my attention? He’s been doing this for three years. Consistently posts analyses of news stories shortly after they’re published. He doesn’t go to the scene of the crime or talk to suspects or victims. He has no connection with the police. There could be any number of reasons he’s working as a telemarketer... I know it’s difficult for you to understand--I struggle myself--but maybe he’s actually satisfied with the petty joys of ordinary life, and doesn’t want anything else. Beer. His girlfriend. Moules-frites. Long walks in the park…” Jim trailed off, eyes flicking sidelong to watch Sebastian. The ex-soldier snorted and straightened up again, turning away. He was sick of Hugo Maes already. 

“I don’t fucking buy that for a second. Who wants to be a telemarketer?” Jim stared at the screen for a few more seconds before closing his laptop.

“Who wants to kill civilians and lick my shoes?”

“But I’m not ordinary,” Sebastian shot back. The words came out with more venom than he had intended—defensive. Shit. Jim’s eyes grew round, smile filling up with dark glee. Sebastian gritted his teeth and waited for the axe to fall. Jim set aside his computer, moving forward like a prowling cat. He stopped less than a foot away from him. Unconsciously, he straightened to attention. Jim smile widened, and Sebastian got another nosefull of sandalwood hair pomade as the man reached up to ghost a finger over the scar that ran along his cheek and over the bridge of his nose. Sebastian tensed to suppress a shiver.

“Poor, jealous Tiger. Are you worried he’s going to steal all my attention away from you? Don’t be foolish. I hardly pay you any mind anyway.” He patted Sebastian’s cheek then turned on his heel, grabbing his laptop before disappearing back into the bedroom. Even with his pride smarting, Sebastian still caught himself staring at Jim’s arse before the door snapped closed behind him. He moved to slump against the edge of the window, staring out into the busy streets below. He couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed at Jim for that jab. It had been dead accurate. The fact he couldn’t even stew in resentment was an extra dash of salt in the wound. And Jim probably knew all of that, too. Black Irish bastard. Damn if he couldn’t use a drink.

Sebastian pieced most of the rest of the story together over the days that followed, milking a few words out of Jim at a time, over dinner or while they meandered through the city. Jim always had his phone in hand, tapping away. Sebastian was pretty sure the bit of distraction it provided was the only thing loosening Jim’s tongue. Or maybe it was just that Jim was in a good mood. He figured out Jim had given orders to have a Belgian competitor’s child kidnapped—convenient for manipulation purposes in addition to the game. And then he had created an envelope containing proof of the crime and a clue that had been hand-delivered to Hugo while they waited at the café. The mystery had been labyrinthine and carefully sculpted. And Hugo had read the opening lines and crumpled it up within fifteen seconds. Not enough motivation to prod the man, who worked from news articles in his apartment, into a potentially dangerous situation, Jim had decided. Saving a child wasn’t reason enough. Jim had to make it more personal. Greater reward to match the increased risk. That was why Sebastian ended up on the roof of an apartment adjoining Square Ambiorix with Elise Gérard in his crosshairs: Hugo’s girlfriend.


	19. Innocence Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim's plan, whatever it is, goes south.

Jim had told him from the start that a day like this might well come. Sebastian was just surprised how little it bothered him. Violent tendencies aside, he knew right from wrong and had never been tempted to kill over a slight like Jim was. But still, looking down the scope of the rifle Jim had provided at Elise, the first unquestionably innocent person he’d ever aimed at, he felt nothing. Jim probably knew. He’d be thrilled with himself: ‘What did I say, Sebastian? A wolf among sheep. My cold-blooded killer.’ His daydreaming was ended by Jim’s voice coming in through his earpiece.

“He’s taking forever. I’m bored.”

“At least you’re sitting in a chair, not lying on your belly out in the cold,” Sebastian said, readjusting his cheek against the rifle’s rest.

“There is that. Clever tiger, cheering me up. I do enjoy armchair sadism. Is it freezing out there?” Truth be told, it was nippy, and Sebastian would have appreciated decent boots, but he had his leather gloves, and his coat was warm enough. He knew what Jim wanted to hear, though. 

“Yeah, it’s miserable.” 

“You’re such a terrible liar,” Jim sighed, “I should make you practice sometime. What will I ever do if you’re captured and interrogated? You’ll have no hope of deceiving them.”

“Maybe you should get me an L-pill. Just in case.” 

“Are you so eager to toss your life away?” Sebastian had mostly been joking, but his answering laugh wasn’t all humorous. 

“Well. I’m not interested in experiencing the sort of interrogation techniques your enemies might use. Or the sorts of punishments you might deal out if I disappointed you by snitching.”

“Then learn to keep your mouth shut,” Jim answered lightly, “Now. Enough distractions. How is Ms. Gérard?”

Sebastian readjusted his scope, taking a broader look. He didn’t see people when he was perched above the world like this: just faces with no real sense of worth beyond their value as a target. No inkling of fellowship or shared humanity. But he removed the psychological distance for a moment to make his assessment. She looked terrified. Her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes wide above the gag. She’d been struggling against her bonds for ages, but now she sat still, apparently exhausted. He didn’t envy whatever bastard Jim had ordered to tie her up. What a shitty job. Risky, difficult, and still mundane. That was the person who’d go under the bus first if things went badly—probably alone, if Jim was working damage control. 

“Alive and well,” He answered, muffling a yawn behind his hand as he moved an inch forward on his belly, trying to stir himself into alertness. Jim’s boredom was contagious and he was cold enough that he wanted to draw his limbs in close to his body, which would keep him from aiming well, and probably lead to him dozing off in twenty or thirty minutes. And he could only guess how long it would take Hugo to find the solution to whatever puzzle Jim had posed. Jim must have had a better concept than him of the timeframe necessary or allowed, but he didn’t seem to expect any action soon. 

“Still well-secured?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” There was a soft click as Jim turned off his transmitter, and Sebastian groaned, trying to stretch a crick in his neck. It had already been almost three hours. Settling himself against the ground, he let himself slip into the sniper’s meditation again. Detached and unfeeling, just watching the woman from half a kilometre away without really seeing her. 

The sun was dipping below the horizon when he heard the click again. It was difficult to gauge how much time had passed without a watch, but Sebastian pegged his guess at another hour and a half. His legs were beginning to fall asleep, and his ears and nose were numb with cold. In another hour or so he’d need a piss. The click was followed shortly by Jim’s voice; not bored anymore but burning cold with rage. 

“Shoot.” 

Jim didn’t have to say the whole word. Before the final consonant had even gone through his earpiece, a spent shell fell with a brassy chime onto the roof. He didn’t remember pulling the trigger or the sound of the gun firing—as though Jim’s command had short-circuited his consciousness. But Sebastian could smell the gunpowder and felt the echo of the recoil in his shoulder. And sure enough, Elise’s body had a coin-sized hole in the middle of its forehead. Working on habit, Sebastian pocketed the shell and began packing away the gun. It took him a moment to realise Jim was still giving him orders. His ears were still ringing from the shot. 

“—at the front of the building.”

“What?” There was no chaos in the streets. It was funny how many people brushed off the sound of a single gunshot when no one in their immediate vicinity fell down dead. In the distance, though, he could hear the wail of a siren. Unrelated, maybe. Or maybe not. Difficult to say. 

“Do you have ears, Moran? Pack up your gun and get off the roof now. Walk down to the ground floor. There’s a cab waiting for you at the front of the building. Now.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Sebastian obeyed, mind still and empty. He shouldered his gun, keeping close to the ground until he reached the door that led off the roof, then started down the stairs. Head up. Brisk but calm. He passed a couple residents of the complex on his way down, but the only one to give him more than a glance was a woman who gave him a small, flirtatious smile as she passed him. Sebastian didn’t register what it was until he had walked another five steps. Not that it would have mattered. 

A black chequered cab was waiting on the road outside. The service light clicked on as Sebastian moved towards it, and he climbed into the back seat, moving his rifle to lay on the ground behind his feet. The sirens were growing louder now. Sebastian rested his shoulder against the side of the car and let the cabbie drive him back to the hotel in silence.

He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong or what state he would find Jim in, but the only thing Sebastian’s mind could really grab onto was the thought that he might see Elise Gérard’s face on the news. It was a flashy killing with an innocent victim. Unlike most of Jim’s other crimes, this one hadn’t been subtle. Maybe he wouldn’t watch any telly tonight. For some reason, the thought bothered him. ‘What’s the matter, Tiger? Don’t pretend you haven’t done worse.’ A bitter smile forced its way to the surface. That was true. He had done worse, and was capable of worse still. And hunters didn’t cry over their prey. He wouldn’t mourn the woman he had killed.


	20. When the Levee Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian and Jim get back to London. Jim is not happy.

The hotel suite looked mostly unchanged. Nothing broken or tossed about. The only difference Sebastian could find was that his bag had been packed. All he’d have to do was grab his bag and leave, and the place would be pristine. Considering the emotion he had heard in Jim’s voice over the headset, that was a surprise. Still, even after a little over a month of living side by side with the man, Sebastian struggled to predict his moods and reactions. Day to day, even hour to hour. Maybe Hugo had somehow managed to compromise their security here, and so Jim was preparing to relocate to a new hotel. But if that was the case, why not have the driver take him straight to the new hotel?

Jim emerged from the bedroom seconds later, suitcase in hand. His face was bone-pale, and his skin was drawn tight over his skull—every facial muscle stiff but uncontracting. It was the worst imitation of calm Sebastian had seen from the criminal yet. Fragile. And damned if he didn’t want to break it like the seal on a shaken bottle of coke. But now was probably not the time for self-destructive curiosity. Something had happened, and Sebastian had yet to determine just how fucked they were.

“What’s going on?” Jim shoved the handle of his suitcase into Sebastian’s hand and he accepted it, slinging the strap of his own duffle bag over his shoulder. Jim turned away without meeting Sebastian’s eyes, and Sebastian only just slipped out of the suite before the door snapped shut in his face. They took the elevator down to the lobby, where Jim wordlessly placed his room key on the front desk, then walked out to the street. One of the hotel’s cars was waiting for them on the curb, and Jim climbed in, leaving him and the driver to stash the bags in the boot. Sebastian climbed in beside Jim once the job was done, casting a sidelong look at him. Jim was still maintaining that porcelain expression, eyes fixed out the window. It only took a few minutes of driving for Sebastian to recognize the route to the airport. Jim was clearly in no mood to talk, and questions were frowned upon more often than not in the best of times, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“Are we going back to London already? And what happened with Hugo? Why did you have me shoot Elise?” But it didn’t matter either way. Jim didn’t even blink. More so than Jim’s rage, just being ignored was frustrating. The criminal stayed like that all the way through airport security. Not speaking except when it was mandatory. Sebastian could see tension in every line of Jim’s body. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if whatever strained force of will Jim was using to keep himself in check gave out in the airport. 

Sebastian didn’t realise until they were boarding that his ticket was first class too. Not that it got him much closer to Jim than the last time they had flown. Jim peeled off from the aisle at the first row of seats. Sebastian was six rows behind him, on the same side of the plane. Even before all of the seats between them filled, he still didn’t manage to land eyes on him through the space between the chair backs and the body of the plane. The only glimpse he got of Jim was when he stood up to take a piss. The criminal was staring out the window, lips pressed into a narrow line. Tray table up, seat in the full upright position, no drink, nothing. He’d probably been like that the whole time. Lost in thought, or absorbed in keeping his emotions contained. It was difficult to tell.

Jim wasn’t waiting for him on the jet bridge this time. Even though Sebastian had rushed to get their bags out of the overhead compartments as soon as the “fasten seatbelts” sign turned off, the only glimpse he caught of the criminal was his face in profile as he turned out of the corridor and into Heathrow Airport. He had to jog to get eyes on him again, and even then he was struggling to gain ground. Jim was weaving through the dwindling crowd of night travellers with a dexterity that Sebastian was having a damn hard time matching while carrying their bags. Short of barrelling everyone down, there wasn’t much he could do but keep pace. 

He caught up once they had left the building, stopping beside Jim on the sidewalk as the man scanned the road for the right car. He still had that blank expression—didn’t acknowledge Sebastian at all. How long was he going to keep that up? It had been hours, but Sebastian doubted it could last a day. Then again, Jim Moriarty was full of surprises. Once they climbed into the car, though, Sebastian thought he caught a crack in the façade. Jim drew a deep breath in as the driver moved into the flow of traffic, and as he exhaled, Sebastian could have sworn he’d heard a shudder in Jim’s chest.

When the car finally stopped in front of the building, Sebastian grabbed their bags and started inside behind Jim. The relief of being back in familiar territory was muted by the palpable tension around Jim. Now was no time to let his guard down. Ms. Halifax was retrieving her mail from the box in the hall, and her sharp eyes turned on them—slid past Sebastian and stuck on Jim. Her thin brows pressed together and her mouth drew up into a bow. Then she turned away, mail in hand, disappearing into her own flat. She must have felt it too. Sebastian kept a few steps behind Jim as he climbed the stairs and moved down the hall. Jim kept his head down and face turned away, but when he moved to unlock the door, Sebastian could see the Irishman’s hand shaking. It looked involuntary. And why shouldn’t it be: Jim had no reason to put on an act like that for him. 

Jim opened the door and left it hanging wide behind him. Sebastian followed him in, taking in the flat again. Everything pristine. Just where it had been when they’d left it days ago. Jim turned on the light and bent to remove his shoes, fingers fumbling over the laces. Sebastian toed his own off, focusing his attention on Jim again as the criminal dropped onto the couch. Locking the door and setting down their bags just inside it, Sebastian took a step closer. He felt like he was stalking a wolf on an iced over lake. Any move could be disastrous. Jim looked waxen, but his fingers were still clumsy as they reached for the television remote. He pressed a button. Nothing. The corners of his mouth tightened and turned down and his grip on the remote turned white knuckled. His eyes slid closed. Breath hissed in through his teeth. Sebastian smelled ozone and tensed. Then Jim’s arm snapped back. 

The remote hit the television with a sharp crack, a spider web fracture bursting over the screen from the point of impact. The remote bounced off and fell to the floor, but Jim was already on his feet, a feral snarl rising in his throat. Sebastian fell back, mute, as Jim grabbed the top of the television screen and heaved it off its stand. It thudded into the bamboo floor, and Sebastian could only hope the downstairs neighbours knew better than to pry. He saw red blotches of rage rising to Jim’s cheeks and brow when the other spun around, upending the coffee table with a bang, sending it a scarce foot along the floor before it scraped to a stop. And then Jim reached into the television cabinet and pulled out a handgun.


	21. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian averts disaster.

“Holy shit, Jim,” The sight of the shiny Beretta jarred Sebastian out of silence as he fell back towards the wall, pre-emptively putting his hands to his ears, “What are you—“ His words were lost in the bang of the gun as Jim levelled it on the couch and shot. And shot again and again. Sebastian counted the rounds as much by the pressure he felt thudding against his ribs like a heartbeat as by the sound. His ears were ringing. Five shots. Fluffy white cushioning bloomed out of holes in the front and back of the couch. The places where the bullets had embedded in the frame bulged out slightly, deforming the fabric. Sebastian spotted a pockmark in the floor where one of the rounds had dug in. He looked back at Jim just as the criminal wheeled towards him. His face was mottled with an unhealthy flush, teeth bared. He raised the gun again, and Sebastian’s pulse leapt, preparing for pain or death. But neither came. Jim gestured with the muzzle towards the hall. 

“Out.” His voice sounded strange. All the wrong timbre and emotion, like a blown out speaker. He could have obeyed. It would have been a reasonable thing to do. The simplest thing to do. But seeing Jim standing there with his face twisted into something broken gave him pause. 

“Jim,” He took a step closer, putting himself in nearly point blank range, “Shouldn’t you put the gun away? The neighbours might hear.” Adrenaline was making him giddy, but he kept his voice low and calm, eyes locked on Jim’s. The criminal’s mouth tugged up into a scowl, and in the next moment, Sebastian felt the cold barrel of Jim’s gun pressing under his chin. His head was forced up and he found himself staring at the ceiling. Options ruptured into the forefront of his mind with the force of three decades of fighting experience and three billion years’ worth of will to live. He could disarm Jim with a jab to the nerves of the inner elbow and by twisting his wrist. Or he could pry Jim’s arm away by brute force. Fast and easy. But Sebastian didn’t twitch. His blood was singing and his mind was crystal fucking clear. He didn’t think Jim would kill him, but the possibility of death hanging over his head in this bizarre game of chicken was enough to give him the biggest thrill he’d felt since he began working for Jim. 

Sebastian tried to count how long they stood there, but his heart, generally a steady beat a second was doing strange things, and he kept losing track of the numbers in his head anyway. It felt like a long time, but not quite long enough, had passed when Jim finally dropped the gun to the floor. He looked down at Jim as soon as the pressure was released feeling faintly dizzy as he came down from his high, but he forgot himself at once when he registered how Jim looked. The criminal was sagging like a puppet with an ill-trained operator, eyes lifeless. His face was still flushed from his earlier explosion of rage, but the colour was leaving fast. Sebastian had seen a number of Jim’s moods, but he’d never caught anything like this before. Jim had rages and strops, but Sebastian had never seen him vulnerable. As though his strings were being cut one by one, Jim slumped to the ground beside the gun. He ended up on his knees, head lolling onto his shoulder—that too-crisp white shirt. 

“It’s pathetic, Sebastian, really.” It sounded as though Jim wasn’t actually trying to shape the words before they left his mouth. They were slurred together in a thick drawl. 

“What is?” The sharp edges of the world were returning. Even with the distraction Jim was providing, Sebastian couldn’t help but linger on that moment when Jim’s gun had been at his throat.

“You. Hugo. Me.”

“You?” Sebastian’s eyebrows snapped together, taken aback. He had never heard Jim seriously admit to fault. 

“Me,” Jim answered in that lifeless monotone, “I wanted it to be clever. I wanted so badly for it to be clever. But there are so few truly clever people in the world, Sebastian. And most magic tricks are just that. Tricks. I looked in the wrong place at the wrong time and I was fooled. Just like all the rest. All the ordinary people.” He slammed his fist into the floor. Sebastian grimaced at the crunch of cartilage and bone, but Jim didn’t react beyond doing it again to the same effect. 

“It’s going to be difficult to text or write if you break your fingers doing that… And do we have immediate concerns? Someone must have heard you fire that gun. The police could be on their way.”

“I’m not ordinary.” Jim’s fist slammed into the ground again. There was no reverb. There must be something shock-absorbing under the bamboo. It occurred to Sebastian, after a moment of thought, that Jim might well have had the flat soundproofed to mitigate damage in situations like this. He didn’t seem worried about the neighbours, anyway, though Sebastian wasn’t confident Jim was thinking clearly. His dark eyes were clouded beneath his lowered lids, “But I was so blind to miss it.” He struck the side of the couch that time, jolting it half an inch. Sebastian watched him, mulling over his options. He had never been a shoulder for anyone to cry on, and even if he was capable of it, he doubted Jim even wanted company. Curiosity and the magnetic appeal of seeing Jim so human kept Sebastian rooted there, though. After a long moment, Sebastian lowered himself to the floor beside Jim.

“I have no inkling of what happened, so I can’t tell you how obvious I think it is. Not that you’d care to hear it from me anyway. But you’re not ordinary, anyway, so that is something.” 

“So dull of me,” Jim’s nose wrinkled, voice filling up with bile as he spat the word, “So naïve.” Jim dragged his palms over his face, tugging at the skin. The criminal wasn’t listening to him. 

“Jim—“ His hand was on Jim’s shoulder before he recognised the decision to put it there. It felt right, though. Solid and warm beneath the smooth cotton. A reminder that Jim was in fact flesh and blood. He got some sort of perverse pleasure out of that; whatever the hell was happening to Jim now wasn’t so much a failing as the truth coming out. Still, Sebastian didn’t think that Jim would accept the contact. He figured he’d shake him off, or else ignore him entirely. Instead, the Irishman fell quiet for a long moment, face turned away. Then, finally, he looked at him. His face still looked drawn, but most of the tension was gone and the lights were back on in Jim’s eyes.

“You don’t need to fuss, Sebastian. The flat is soundproofed and largely bullet-proofed, and the flats that share a wall with this one are occupied by people who know to mind their own business.” That was what Sebastian had guessed at earlier. One less thing to be worried about. The couch and the television were still fucked, but Jim could probably conjure up replacements for them by tomorrow at lunch. That wasn’t the point, though. 

“That’s good. Still was dangerous, though.” 

“Don’t lie to yourself, Tiger. You could be brought to orgasm with just the blade of a knife against your throat and a few well-placed threats. You were enjoying yourself.” The arch comment suffered for lack of Jim’s wicked smile, but Sebastian still chuckled. 

“Yeah. Maybe I was. The fact stands.” 

“I was just so disappointed…” Jim trailed off, tilting his head back to rest against the side of the couch. Sebastian let the silence lay fallow for a second before his interest got the best of him.

“Disappointed in what?” 

“Myself. You can let go, now.” Sebastian released Jim’s shoulder at once, curling his fingers, as though he could preserve the stolen warmth longer that way. Jim leaned forward to pick up his gun before rising to his feet, stashing the Beretta back in its place in the television stand. Considering the note this was ending on, it would be wise to just keep his mouth shut, but Sebastian couldn’t help himself. 

“Any chance of me finding out the details of what happened?” He probed, but Jim was already starting down the hall towards his bedroom, fingers on the buttons of his shirt. He didn’t stop or say another word. Sebastian stayed on the ground a while longer, mulling over the interaction. Things could have gone worse in a dozen ways. He could be dead. Jim could be dead. But instead the only evidence of the outburst that would take more than a trash bin and a bit of rearranging to gloss over was the bullet embedded in the floorboards, and Sebastian doubted that would last long either. Eventually, though, he got up, hand still feeling lingeringly warm. That night he dreamed about gun smoke and Jim, and only a little bit about Elise Gérard and Katie Mullins.


	22. Picking up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian starts to figure out what happened with Hugo, and Jim cleans up the wreckage from the night before.

Sebastian woke up to the sound of furniture being moved and men’s voices. By the time he had showered, dressed, and exited out into the main room, the couch Jim had taken his anger out on the night before had been replaced by an identical one. The television had been swapped out as well, though unless his eyes were fooling him, this one was a couple inches bigger and a hair slimmer. Jim was sitting in his armchair with his flannel robe wrapped tight around him, face slack. His eyes focused in on Sebastian as he started for the kitchen. 

“Make me a coffee.” He looked like he needed it. Had he got any sleep at all last night? Somehow, Sebastian doubted it. Not that Jim’s sleep habits were healthy to begin with. 

“Sure thing.” Sebastian started up the coffee maker, leaning back against the counter as the first drops fizzled into the decanter. Seeing Jim again, his mind reverted to mulling over what had happened with Hugo. Something about him had instantly captivated Jim—something that had seemed clever, but wasn’t. The website. That was the only thing Sebastian could think of. That was the only thing that bland telemarketer had that made him interesting enough to merit a visit from Jim. 

The first time Sebastian had seen it, something had felt off. Jim could have done those mental acrobatics, but Hugo What’s-his-name wasn’t Jim. Hugo was just as ordinary as the next man. The next sheep. How would he have done it, if he had been Hugo? Whatever it was, Sebastian was damn sure he could have done it. The most straightforward option would be to ask Jim to do it for him, but the criminal wouldn’t have been so disappointed if he had someone else to play his living chess game with. He would have stayed; engaged with the other person. The cases were all unrelated, all types of crimes and people, and all spread out over the years. But all local. That seemed strange. Why would an online detective restrict themselves to one country? Smaller than that, even. One city. There were more interesting crimes playing out elsewhere in the world, with news reports easily accessible online. If Hugo didn’t need any insider information, why not solve those? A lot of them made for better stories than the crimes Hugo solved. No. He was getting his information from sources other than the media. He was sure of it. What those were, though—

“Moran.” Sebastian started, then threw out his thoughts.

“What is it, boss?” 

“Coffee.” The coffee machine had stopped burbling. Sebastian quickly filled two mugs, adding a liberal amount of milk to Jim’s, before ferrying it over. Sebastian seated himself on the new sofa to drink, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jim cradled the hot ceramic in his hands. 

“You were thinking.” There was a trace of amusement in Jim’s voice, which Sebastian preferred to his rage or melancholy. Hopefully he had managed to get most of it out yesterday. The world, particularly as it concerned him, was less comfortable when Jim was unhappy. 

“I was.”

“About Hugo? Or me? Or were you feeling guilty, maybe?” Sebastian snorted at the final suggestion. Though, now that Jim mentioned it, he couldn’t quite shake the memory of how he had felt after he had shot Elise. Not the shooting itself—that memory was already starting to bleed into the mental compilation he had formed of everyone he had ever shot—but his own reaction to it, which had been new. Guilt? Maybe. But either way he didn’t regret it, and had more interesting things to occupy his thoughts with.

“Hugo,” He admitted, “I was thinking about how it was someone could trick you.” Treading on dangerous territory, but Jim had asked.

“I was bored and I wanted a distraction. I wanted it to be interesting. I wanted to believe. I told you that already. What’s left for you to think about?”

“I mean the trick itself. What it was.”

“Oh,” A small smile brightened Jim’s eyes and gave Sebastian a short-lived dysrhythmia, “Are you going to put on a little show for me, Tiger? I do like this game. Tell me what you’ve figured out.”

“I remembered a few things about Hugo’s blog. No connection between the crimes. Any random thing. But all Belgium. All Brussels. And there was another sort of weird thing, I think. There was no backlog, was there? He just begins suddenly a year or whatever ago and starts doing current cases. He didn’t put up any cold cases he had cracked. Why? If it’s his hobby, why not do the cold cases, or cases abroad? Pick and choose the most interesting ones? That’s what I would do.” Jim took a slow sip of his coffee. 

“Basic questions, aren’t they? So easy.”

“Easy to think of in hindsight.” Jim scoffed. 

“Easy for me, either way. At least, they should be.” The light was leaving Jim’s eyes again. Sebastian cut in before it disappeared entirely, even though he was asking a question he could guess the answer to. 

“Are you going to tell me what it means? The stuff I figured out?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.” Jim leaned back in his chair, eyes going distant again as he sipped at his coffee. Sebastian was expecting some sort of reply, but instead, after what must have been two or three minutes of silence, Jim set down his empty cup on the table, stretched out his legs, and stood.

“I’m staying in, but you have a job today, Sebastian. I won’t tolerate another disappointment this week. From anyone.” As though he were merciful to begin with.


	23. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian deals with the consequences of Jim's continuing slump.

Jim had twenty-two more people killed that week. Two clients, fifteen through the usual hitman work, and five members of the network. It was above average by a considerable amount in terms of executed staff, but Sebastian could remember worse weeks in that regard. What was worrying was Jim’s behaviour. 

The criminal made himself scarce the first couple days, but after that, he adopted a new attitude in his work. Usually elegance came first. Sebastian’s jobs were clean, easy, and safe. Security cameras happened to be pointing the wrong way or malfunctioning. Guards who might otherwise do a round on the roof called in sick. Police were conveniently distracted by chaos a few blocks away. Sebastian did what he needed to do, and got out without breaking a sweat. Jim, though, had started to become foolhardy. Or maybe just indifferent to Sebastian’s safety. He had nearly been spotted by a policeman on an ordinary patrol a few days ago. Yesterday, Jim had neglected to inform him of two exits to a house he was supposed to be watching. And now, instead of a mark, he was faced by a small group of mercenaries. Anti-snipers. 

It was pure chance that he noticed a flash of movement as one darted from behind a car to a brick outcropping. Once he saw the first, though, he noticed the two others. Keeping under cover, making furtive movements, and drawing progressively closer. They must have known where he was posted, or they never would have been able to do as good a job of it as they were. Either they had some insider information, or else they had access to live footage of the roof. It didn’t matter much how they had figured him out at this stage, though. In a matter of minutes, they’d be on top of him. Three guns against one. Shit. 

His mind was spinning. He could see how the situation would play out in his head. If he remained here. One of the three would move to hide behind the dumpster in the alley by the fire escape, so he’d be taking fire if he tried to climb down that way. The other two would move to the roof through the building, so Sebastian wouldn’t be able to shoot at them until they were right on top of him. Not an ideal situation for a sniper. Sebastian’s heart rate spiked, but he lay still. He had to play his cards carefully. If he let them know their surprise was blown, they would probably only move quicker: give him less time to think. And the way they were moving, it would be tricky getting a shot off. Damn it, Jim. There was no reason this situation couldn’t have been foreseen and prevented if the Irishman had only taken a little more care. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it, Tiger. I know you’re just dying to show off.’

“Shut up,” Sebastian snarled at the voice inside his head, trigger finger rubbing at the cool metal of his gun like a worry rock. Options. He needed options. If he waited here, he’d be cornered on a roof. It would be a quick-draw match, two to one. No chance he’d get two shots off with a handgun before one of them shot at him. Not without cover, anyway, and the roof was empty. He wouldn’t rely on the thin hope they’d miss with the first shot. If he ran down the fire escape now, he’d be under fire in a restricted area. Bad idea. On another day, he might have ran back into the building. He had no doubt he could kill them all there. But the place wasn’t dead empty, and with Jim off his game, he didn’t trust the criminal to have every witness taken care of, every security camera gotten rid of. He might not care enough to make sure Sebastian didn’t end up in jail, even though this was entirely his fault. He could save anger for later though. For now, one thing was clear. There was a snowball’s chance in hell that he was getting down to street level from that building without getting shot at. Which left one choice. Sebastian clicked the safety of his rifle on, then, in one quick motion slid it into his bag and zipped the bag. Then he was on his feet, sprinting for the opposite side of the roof. 

Ten meters down, he heard someone shout, but Sebastian’s focus was fixed on the next building. Fifteen feet away, six feet down. He cleared the gap, his knees taking the impact as he hit the ground running. He heard the trio running too. How many risks would they be willing to take? How much attention were they willing to draw? He couldn’t slow down, either way. He had to get into a taxi or a train or a crowd. Lose them. He scanned the rooftops. There was a ladder, dropping down between two buildings three roofs away. If he got down there, he’d be close to the main road. If he was lucky, there would be a cab there. If he wasn’t, he’d think of something else when he got there. 

The second jump went as smooth as the first, though his rifle thumped hard against his back with every leap and loping stride. The third jump was onto a roof a few feet higher. He cleared the alley, but only with one foot, and for one, heart-stopping second, he was reeling backwards over hard cement. Instinct alone kept him from trying to bring the other foot forward towards the roof. Too late for that. He bent his upper body instead, and grabbed at the edge of the roof just as the foot that had landed properly slid off the slate tiles. No time to think. No time to waste on fear. As soon as his body had jerked to a stop, Sebastian let go. His boots slammed into the ground a second later. 

Sebastian felt the force rock through his feet, his knees, his spine. His ankle had twisted at an awkward angle as it absorbed the momentum. He suspected, had it not been for his boots, it would have broken. As it was, his first step down the alleyway send a sharp pain shooting up through his leg. But escape was his most pressing concern. The main street was within sight. He had to run for it. Ignoring his protesting joint, he bolted for the sidewalk as he heard the feet of his pursuers almost level with the other end of the alley. As he nearly ran into a man with his groceries, Sebastian caught sight of a cab idling just a yard away. He all but threw himself into the back seat. 

“Drive.” The cab pulled away from the curb more quickly than he could have dreamed. 

“Sebastian Moran, isn’t it?” Heavy Cockney accent. Sebastian’s gaze snapped to the cabbie’s face. No one he knew. He exhaled a sharp breath. He should be grateful. Jim didn’t have to give him any help. But it would have been better to never have been chased by mercs with guns in the first place.

“Yeah. Moriarty send you?”

“Of course. I was in the area anyway. No trouble at all.” 

“Good. Wasn’t planning on thanking you.” Even though he was sitting still, with the adrenaline of the run starting to die down, his ankle was throbbing worse than ever. Any shift was sharp, hot pain. He gritted his teeth and silently cursed Jim as the taxi turned towards SoHo.


	24. Blood and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian confronts Jim about what happened on his latest mission.

“What the fuck, Jim?” The rush of the chase had worn off and left Sebastian with an ankle that had shaken painfully under his weight as he had climbed up the stairs to the flat and a white-hot coal of rage burning in his chest. All reason and patience were gone. Jim, phone in one hand, remote in the other, glanced up from some old episode of Strictly Come Dancing. 

“What’s the matter, Tiger? I got you a cab and everything, if that’s what you’re upset about.” His eyes were dead and dark, neither intimidated nor offended by Sebastian’s anger. He might as well be a sardine nipping at a shark. Sebastian’s hands tightened into fists.

“They knew my position. There’s a leak in the network. Why aren’t you upset about this? You should be looking for answers. Information is power—isn’t that the sort of shit you usually say? Do something!” Jim’s fingers twitched on the remote. Rachel Stevens stopped mid-waltz. Jim turned his empty eyes fully towards Sebastian. 

“I think you may be confused about your role, Sebastian. You may sleep in my house and go on little holidays with me, but do not fool yourself. You are a bodyguard and a sniper. Not my minder. Not my chief of staff. Not my right hand man. I am your master and you are my whiny bitch. The highest position you should aspire to is daddy’s little lapdog.”

“You keep on like this, you won’t need a bodyguard,” Sebastian snapped back, “I know you’re a fucking genius and I’m nothing special, but even I can tell your showing this week has been pathetic. A few more weeks like this and you’ll be lucky to stay out of prison. The network will go to hell. MI5 and the police aren’t that stupid.” 

“That’s my choice to make, not yours, Moran.” Sebastian’s nerves itched beneath his skin. He wanted to tear them out like roots out of soil. His heart was pounding too hard, too fast, blood pressure too high. How could Jim be so fucking frustrating? So ready to throw everything he had created away?

“Fuck Hugo. Jesus fucking Christ, fuck Hugo,” The things he’d do to that pseudo-detective if he had the chance, “He’s that important? Worth losing your freedom and the network for, just because he disappointed you? You’re letting him play that big a role in your life?” 

“Knees.” Sebastian faltered, mouth opening. Jim’s face twisted into an animal snarl. 

“Knees, Moran.” And Sebastian dropped, pain shooting up from his ankle as he changed positions. There was a long moment of stillness and then at last Jim, silent as a cat, moved forward. A blade pressed cold and sharp into his throat. Where the hell had he gotten that knife? It didn’t matter. Sebastian’s head was swimming from the intense pain in his injured foot and whatever power it was Jim held over him. Fresh adrenaline was pulsing through his veins. His rage and frustration had been doused, and he was left considering wild fantasies. He was a human sacrifice for whatever heathen god Jim was an emissary of, a lamb at the slaughterhouse, a Disney lemming about to cast himself off a cliff. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Jim’s eyes. Above him, the Irishman laughed. 

“Poor Tiger. Is that what you think this is about? Are you jealous Hugo could have such an effect on me? Are you angry he upset me? That my livelihood is being jeopardised by a sheep?” Sebastian straightened his back. 

“I just don’t want to end up in prison again.”

“If I asked you to go to prison for me, you would go like a good little soldier, wouldn’t you? That’s not what it is.” 

“But for a reason,” Sebastian countered, lifting his eyes at last, “Not because you gave up caring.” Jim’s smile twisted. 

“Have some faith, Tiger. Hugo was the catalyst, but nothing you could do to him would help me. I’m upset at my own stupidity and upset that it’s this difficult to find someone worth playing with. I do get bored, being a spider in a world of flies. I thought I told you that already. And I meant it. Anyway, the network is more resilient than you seem to think. Are you under the impression I’ve never ignored it for a week or so before? Keep your mind on your own jobs. If you ever try to give me an order again…” The blade slid against his skin with increased pressure—sickeningly sharp. Sebastian felt his skin split open beneath it. A hot trickle of blood flowed free from the cut, running down his neck until it was sopped up by the collar of his shirt, “I’ll have to get my floors redone.”

It would be easy as breathing to disarm him: break his wrist and gut him like a fish. But Sebastian stayed still and quiet as Jim watched him bleed. He counted two hundred and sixty three heartbeats before Jim let his hand drop. He wiped off the blade against the shoulder of Sebastian’s t-shirt. 

“Anyway, have you ever considered I might have a reason for sending you on exposed missions? Because don’t think for a moment that I didn’t know…” It struck Sebastian all at once. He was such an idiot. Jim was bored. Jim had cameras. Jim liked seeing him go through his paces, and had since the very start. “I was watching you,” Jim said in his sing-song voice as he brought the knife before his face, studying the razor-fine edge. Sebastian felt a full-body shudder course through him, and he dropped his head, the cut on his neck smarting as he did so. 

“Oh, Tiger,” Jim’s voice was warmer than he had ever heard it. A soothing sort of coo. Demeaning, maybe, but Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to care as Jim’s fingers curled around the side of his jaw, “You are such an interesting little pet. You’re even better to watch in person.” And then Jim was drawing his head up. Fresh blood drooled out of the wound, but Sebastian didn’t notice. Jim’s lips were on his, warm and lazy, and this time he smelled more like day-old coffee and sweat than peppermint and sandalwood, but it was still good. Good enough to burn out every synapse in his brain and leave him swimming in the dark. Their noses brushed, the kiss slowed, their breaths mingled, and then Jim finally broke away, smiling like the devil himself. 

“Off you go now, Sebby. I’m trying to watch my show.” Sebastian stumbled to his feet, surprised by the shocking pain and instability of his ankle. He’d completely forgotten he was injured. His eyes stuck on Jim as he limped down the hall towards his room. The criminal only settled himself on the sofa and started up Strictly Come Dancing again, and maybe he was deluding himself, but Sebastian could have sworn he saw a faint flush on Jim’s cheeks.


	25. New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which regularly scheduled fireworks surprise Sebastian, and Jim pays him a visit in his bedroom.

Sebastian jolted awake. Mouth dry. Chest tight. Damp and freezing. Heart racing. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. The covers were tangled up around his legs. He kicked them off and climbed to his feet, stumbling into the wall. If he had been dreaming, he couldn’t remember the dream, but he felt an echo of agony in his back and his face. He mopped a hand across his cheek and it came away clammy wet. Blood? And the sound, the sensation… Pressure waves, like from an explosion, were percussing against the window. Rattling it in its frame. Everything was so dark. But there were flashes. Bombs? Lightning? Where the fuck was he? His memories blurred into the forgotten dream. Nothing made sense. Gasping for breath, he scrambled for his handgun, toppling the lamp as he tore open his bedside table. Even in the dark, he could find it, and it felt heavy in his hand as he collapsed against the wall, feeling again that faint rattle, hearing the explosion—not so distant. Maybe a mile. 

The door latch clicked, and Sebastian instinctively raised the gun. Light poured in from the hallway, and Sebastian blinked against it, but caught the silhouette. Disoriented as he was, he recognized the cut of Jim’s shoulders in one of his designer suits, the tilt of his head. Still struggling to breathe, he lowered the gun. 

“Jim?” His voice sounded ragged, even to his own ears. Jim laughed.

“Happy New Year, Tiger. I wondered if you’d enjoy the fireworks. I bet Colchester was quiet.” 

Shit. Chest quivering with every attempted inhalation, Sebastian got onto his knees and yanked open the curtains. The sky was lighting up in starbursts of yellow, white, blue and red over the Thames. Fireworks. Only fireworks. He pressed his free hand to his cheek again and brought it away. Sweat, not blood, though a memory of pain remained. His fingers were trembling. His whole body was. Jim stole into the room like a shadow, pushing the covers on the bed aside so he could perch on the edge, watching Sebastian with amusement. 

“Fucking tosser.” Had he been thinking straight, the words probably wouldn’t have left his mouth. Maybe that was why Jim only laughed again. 

“Poor Tiger,” He said, though there was no sympathy in his voice, “Didn’t you know what day it is?” 

“Didn’t think of it,” His heart was still thundering in his ears, almost as distracting as the fireworks, “Don’t think about holidays anymore.” Christmas had passed utterly unnoticed. The criminal world carried on while other people exchanged gifts and visited their families. No rest for the wicked.

“Put your gun down and come here.” Maybe Jim had acclimatized him to minor humiliations. Maybe the occasional, fleeting kisses that had followed the first had left him hungry for more contact with the Irishman. Either way, Sebastian thought nothing of half-crawling, weak-kneed, to his bed and climbing up onto it. Jim’s fingers curled into his sweaty hair, and Sebastian allowed himself to be arranged like a doll. He couldn’t do much else. His muscles didn’t feel as though they were working properly, at once too stiff and too weak. The awful disorientation had faded, but the vague sense of impending doom remained. Maybe if they would just shut up with the fireworks outside, then… Jim was stroking the hair just behind his ear and temple in little swirling motions, using just the tips of his fingers. It would have been much more pleasant if he didn’t feel like shit. As it was, it was just faintly distracting. He had to fight for every breath.

“Were you going to shoot me, Sebastian?” He wasn’t ready to talk; didn’t want to answer these sorts of questions when he could barely operate his lungs. “Maybe I should make you keep the handgun in a safe.” 

“No.” 

“No, you weren’t going to shoot me, or no, you don’t want to keep your handgun in a safe?”

“Both.”

“You recognised me this time. But I saw that look in your eyes. I’m willing to play with my own life, but being shot because my bodyguard doesn’t realise where he is would be a very anticlimactic end.” He just couldn’t shut up, could he? Sebastian forced a breath, closed his eyes, and tried to focus on a logical argument to put forth. Jim had moved on before he got anywhere close, breathing in—effortlessly—before wrinkling his nose, “You smell like fear, Sebastian. It’s not sexy.” Like he could help that. He might have laughed. It came out as just sharp exhalation. 

“Sorry.”

“Shh,” Jim soothed, fingers trailing down to stroke the back of his neck, “I know. Just noticing. Usually you smell decent. Even your sweat is tolerable enough. But now you have that special, human reek of fear. I forget sometimes that you’re capable of fear. You trick me into thinking you’re more than that. Better than prey. More than a predator. A machine. My animate gun. But you’re just a human in borrowed tiger skin. Which is… disappointing in some respects. I have to take care of you, or all those little cracks in your psyche will splinter, and then you won’t be any use to anyone. But it’s worth it, Sebastian. You’re still valuable. And you’re so loyal. Maybe I shouldn’t worry too much about you shooting me. I think you’d much rather die than kill me. Why are you so loyal, Tiger? Do you know?” 

Sebastian was listening, but only to the sound of Jim’s voice. He let the meaning drift over his head as he managed to slow his breathing, and his heart-rate returned to baseline, focusing just on the cadence of Jim’s words, the feeling of his fingers, the warmth of his thigh against his cheek. The fireworks continued outside, but now the sound was named and expected, he could ignore it more easily. His sweat was drying, leaving him less chilly but still sticky. Once this was over and Jim was gone, Sebastian was going to have to scrub down his face and chest, at least. Jim was right. He did have that sharp, sour smell of fear clinging to him. It was only when Jim fell silent that he realised he had been asked a question. He turned his face somewhat to look up at him. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Tiger. You broke your lamp, you know. Shame. It was a little expensive. I can replace it, obviously, but try to be more careful when you’re thrashing around next time.” Sebastian managed a real laugh that time, looking down at the lamp. The porcelain base had cracked into three or four large pieces. 

"Sorry about that, boss.” 

“It’s fine…” For a moment, there was silence, and at last Sebastian was able to soak up the way Jim was softly pulling at his hair and running his fingernails against his scalp. His muscles were relaxing. He stretched out his legs, letting exhaustion sink into him. Maybe Jim would let him fall asleep like this—half in his lap, petting his hair. Jim caught his attention before he could close his eyes again, though.

“I was wondering, Bastian, if you had given any more thought to Hugo. How he tricked me. I was sure you would be able to figure it out eventually, and you’ve had long enough to think.” Sebastian wet his lips. He had gone back to Hugo’s blog and given it another read; mulled it over and came up with an idea, though he was not confident enough in it to bring it up to Jim unprompted. 

“I did notice something. I thought it was weird before how Hugo only solved cases in the city of Brussels, not the whole country or beyond, which he should have been able to, if he was really only using the information he claimed to be using. But more specific than that, all of the crimes he solved were within the Brussels Capital Ixelles police zone. You said he had no connection to the police. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have gotten his hands on classified police information somehow. Maybe he stole a police-person's laptop, or got access to their emails or something. I’m not sure about that bit, but I’m pretty sure he must have been using information from the police that was not publicly announced to solve those crimes. Stealing work from a whole police department’s worth of detectives.” Jim’s fingers continued uninterrupted as he explained, but when he finished, Jim’s massage stopped as well. 

“Very good, Sebastian. You did figure it out. Clever, clever. He was nosy. He got into the email account of a roommate ages ago. A roommate who became a police officer. Always change your passwords, Tiger. It’s easy to be fooled when you hope too hard. When you expect something to be what you want. I’m proud of you.” The praise felt better even than Jim’s fingers had. Sebastian turned his face into Jim’s hip, relishing his warmth, his scent, the texture of his suit, the rhythm of his breathing. Jim’s hand resettled between his shoulder blades, applying gentle pressure. They stayed like that for another minute, maybe, and then Jim was nudging him away. 

“I need to finish up some work, Tiger. Get some sleep. You won’t shoot anything, will you?” It was difficult to sit up, but Sebastian dragged himself away, getting to his feet so he could grab his gun and stash it back in the bedside table, pushing the pieces of the lamp up against the wall. He would take care of them tomorrow. So much for Jim soothing him back to sleep again. But that had been a faint hope anyway. What he had received was more than he had expected: the praise, the head massage. 

“Wasn’t planning on it, no.” 

“Good.” Jim got to his feet, smoothing down his suit before moving towards the door, “Sweet dreams, Tiger. And take a shower before you go back to sleep, or something. Or the smell might stick.”

“Alright. I will. Happy New Year, Jim.”

“Happy New Year, Sebastian.” Jim shut the door behind him, but through it, and over the explosions of the fireworks, Sebastian still caught a thread of song, soft and not projected. Jim was singing Auld Lang Syne. Feeling oddly lightheaded, Sebastian moved to grab a fresh shirt and boxers before going to take his shower.


	26. Wolf among Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian starts picking up a skill to impress Jim, and has another nasty experience.

It had been more than two months since his last drink. Physically he didn’t need it, but the raw hunger for stimulation remained. He had been forbidden drugs too, and while Jim had never specifically said anything against cigarettes, Sebastian had seen the way his nose scrunched when he walked in from the balcony after a smoke break. The adrenaline was good. It was necessary. But it wasn’t enough. There was one thing left that gave him a guaranteed burst of chemical pleasure—making Jim proud. It didn’t take much: getting a text from Jim acknowledging a good shot, the twitch of the Irishman’s mouth if he walked in on Sebastian doing press-ups in his room, or a delicate ‘Thank you, Sebby’ if he anticipated Jim’s needs. Just a light touch, and Sebastian was walking on air for an hour. It was good, but he needed it to be more regular, more predictable, so he could crave it on his way home from work. Look forward to it in the mornings. Jim was particular about a lot of things—cleanliness, efficiency, and fashion above all. But he was also picky about food. Even afternoon tea could become an ordeal. That was how he ended up in a cooking class. 

It was surreal, standing in a room alongside a dozen people with aprons and matching knife sets, zesting lemons and mincing garlic. With the debatable exception of Tully’s or Icarus, he hadn’t interacted directly with ordinary people since his days in university. They were guileless. Newlyweds slipping each other morsels of food, a group of middle aged women who always brought a couple bottles of wine to share with the class, bachelors with nervous smiles and hesitant hands. All with their sins and dirty little secrets, but all of them laughable next to his own. 

“That’s fantastic, Camille. Beautiful knife technique. The mushrooms and tomato look great. Keep it up.” Florence was making her rounds of the stations. They were doing an Irish fry today with homemade baked beans and potato farls. The beans had been in the oven for forty minutes, and the bread had just been removed from the pan. All that remained by his count was to prep and fry the remaining ingredients, and Sebastian was fairly certain that, skilled in this or no, he could manage that much. Florence was at his shoulder, watching as he finished slicing the tomatoes. 

“Looking good, Sebastian. But you don’t have to muscle down on those.” He responded at once, lightening the pressure he was putting on the serrated blade as he cut.

“Like that?”

“You’ve got it.” Florence smiled and moved on to the next student. Sebastian’s shoulders sagged. It was too bad that the positive reinforcement from the cooking instructor didn’t hit him the same way Jim’s did at all. The praise and the smiles were honest, sure, but they didn’t give him even a touch of drug-like euphoria. Maybe because everyone in the class got the same treatment? Because her smile and compliments were not reserved only for him? Jim might insult him and ignore him much of the time, but he was Jim’s confidante—or at least, as much of a confidante as Jim seemed capable of having. He was trusted. He was special. Or maybe it was because Jim recognized him for what he was in a way Florence or anyone else in this room couldn’t, and appreciated him all the more for it. 

Sebastian wasn’t one of them anymore. He hadn’t been for ages. Jim could be right. Maybe he had been born marked for this life. Sebastian had never been a social kid, despite his good looks, his family’s wealth, and being something of a rugby star, but still he’d never felt as isolated as he did now. Maybe he had too much blood on his hands. Maybe he’d become too used to sorting people according to their utility: target, obstacle, exploitable resource. 

“Alright, it looks as though everyone has finished up prepping their veg for the final fry, so I wanted to do a quick demonstration,” Sebastian looked up as Florence took her place in the front of the class, “If you really want to treat yourself to something delicious in your full breakfast, instead of buying black pudding from the store you can make your own. It can be sealed in plastic and frozen, so you don’t have to make it fresh every time, but it does take too long to cook to actually prepare in this class. Also, it obviously involves blood, so if you’re not comfortable or just not interested, feel free to just put your sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms in the pan—get them going. It won’t take long.”

Sebastian considered that proposal. A month ago he would have gone over unthinkingly, but his memories of New Year’s Eve were still fresh in his mind. That had worked out well enough at home. Not ideal, but not a disaster. He’d gotten to show off his hypothesis about Hugo to Jim, and gotten his hair stroked, but he wasn’t eager to have a repeat of that experience here. It would be fine, he was sure. He was an ex-soldier and an assassin. He didn’t get queasy at the sight of blood. But it wasn’t worth the risk Sebastian turned his face away from the front of the room and did as he was told, leaning over the stovetop to toss his tomatoes and mushrooms into the pan alongside two sausages, relishing the sizzle of liquid on the hot metal. Florence was talking at the front of the room to the gathered group. More than half the class, though he wasn’t alone in hanging back. Camille and the other teetotaller bachelor—Jared or Jason or something—weren’t gathered around Florence either.

“...oats have to simmer for twelve to fifteen minutes. You want them cooked, but…” 

“So. Do you not like blood either?” Camille glanced up from her own full pan to him, “Or do you just not like black pudding?”

“I’m alright with black pudding. Better safe than sorry with the blood, I guess.” Sebastian forced a smile, suddenly wishing he could drag that admission back in. He had no reason to share anything with anyone here, and being a little vulnerable would only create the expectation of further honesty and openness. Not something particularly desirable, especially not here. But Camille only nodded and smiled, benign. 

“Blood has always freaked me out. First thing I did when I decided I wanted to learn to cook was master knives. Now I can do those fast, fancy minces chefs do without cutting myself. And feel incredibly cool while doing it. Bonus.” Sebastian laughed despite himself. The sound surprised him. There was no darkness or bitterness in it. It felt like a long time since he had laughed at a joke that wasn’t made at his expense.

“I was wondering how you managed come into an intro cooking course a knife expert. Did you take a special class?”

“Youtube.” Across the room a plastic container was opened. Sebastian’s ears pricked. 

“…really fine sieve for this. A nice thin mesh, see? You don’t want any lumps getting through. Then you just pour it in carefully.” Blood was more viscous than water and maybe it was his imagination, but Sebastian was fairly certain he could pick out its distinct tone of it as it was poured into a bowl. Daring himself, Sebastian glanced over. Florence was mostly obscured by the small crowd, but he caught a glimpse of the stream of blood—deep ruby, fluid and mostly but not quite smooth. A few small clots disrupted the smooth flow. His body was still and calm. His pulse even. Fine. It was fine. Camille was watching him, faint concern on her face. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” 

And then the smell hit him. Salt and iron, fresh and strong, combining in awful ways with the scent and heat of the cooking sausage. The remembered scents of shit, sweat and viscera flooded back to him. He looked away, but too late and in the wrong direction. He looked down into the pan. Mistake. Glistening meat. Bubbling fat. Nausea roiled up in Sebastian’s stomach and he clapped his hand over his mouth. 

“Oh, god—“ A warm, dry hand closed around his forearm, and Camille was dragging him towards the bathroom, the eyes of the rest of the class turning in their direction, “You’re alright. Come on, come on. Quick.” The door closed behind them. It must have blocked out the smell, but it seemed to be fixed in his mind, somehow. Face burning with shame, he choked back a gag, even as Camille put a hand to his shoulder and guided him to the toilet. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get some water. Deep breaths. You’re okay.” Sebastian tried to open his mouth to tell her not to bother. To just return to class and leave him here, but the only thing that came out was a strangled cough. Stomach muscles spasming, he fell to his knees before the toilet, the tile floor hard and cold beneath him. 

Fuck. Why was this happening? Black pudding, that was all it was. He more than anyone should be able to deal with this. He killed people for a living. A little bit of pig blood shouldn’t give him a moment’s pause. It was as ridiculous as it was pathetic. Sebastian choked down a breath of air. There was a faint trace of bleach on the air, nothing more. The door opened again, was shut quickly, and then Camille was squatting beside him, offering up a glass of ice water. 

“Here. Have a drink of water. You’ll feel better. And Mrs. Rodney had peppermints, if you want one. Might help get the smell out of your nose.” He did want a drink, but more than that, Sebastian wanted to reclaim his pride. He didn’t want some journalist or customer service representative or whatever the fuck Camille was seeing him like this. He should be stronger than this. Sebastian shook his head and nudged the glass away with his knuckles, dragging himself to his feet, hands and knees trembling. Camille’s brow furrowed as she straightened.

“Really. It’s okay. This doesn’t mean that you’re weak. No one is… judging you or anything. Everyone is just worried. You should take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s okay to need help. Or to not like blood. Or…” Sebastian’s lip curled. His eyes were wet, his face was burning, and his voice had still not fully recovered from its croak, but there was nothing in the world he wanted less than to be fussed over by some sheep. He could kill her. He could kill her, and over the course of his life, it couldn’t add up to more than a blip. Like Elise Gérard and any of the other people of varying levels of innocence who had ever stumbled into his crosshairs. She could try to be understanding, but she wouldn’t be standing there if she knew him. 

“I’m fine.” Maybe she got the finality in his tone this time. It could have been the scowl. Either way, she fell back long enough for him to get one gulp of clean air before pushing out of the bathroom door. The other students had returned to their cooking stations, though they watched him with curiosity and concern as he went to get his coat. The windows of the room had been opened, letting in a cold, wet wind. Florence held the door for him despite his best efforts to beat her to it, and followed him out onto the street, face creased with worry. 

“Sebastian, I’m so sorry that you had this experience. Wait— Do you—“ Raindrops fell chilly and cleansing on the back of his neck as he turned down the street and towards the tube station, head down, fingers clenched in the pockets of his coat, “Be safe!” Fat chance of that.


	27. Not Quite Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gives up on cooking classes but not cooking, and Jim is very happy about something. Smut on the horizon.

Cooking classes were slashed from his schedule. After that experience, he couldn’t stomach the thought returning to a course like that. The initial idea was still solid, though. He probably should have been using YouTube from the start anyway. 

Sebastian started small, grabbing the moments he was home alone to roast chicken, sauté vegetables and prepare sauces, one eye on his phone, the other on the food. He was trying for secrecy, but maybe he was fooling himself. Jim seemed to know every detail about his life without asking any questions. Why should it be different now, when he was keeping his secret in a space he shared with Jim? If Jim did know, though, he was keeping his mouth shut about it. Probably out of indifference, but maybe because he didn’t want to spoil his fun. 

As it turned out, meticulously following directions got him pretty far in the kitchen. It didn’t take long for him to start turning out meals he deemed good enough for Jim to appreciate, and begin leaving them, fresh and hot, on the kitchen table a few minutes before he got home. Pan-seared tilapia with pasta and lemon-butter. Chana masala with chapatti and minted carrots. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It took precise coordination. Jim’s schedule was erratic, as was Sebastian’s, but between gauging Jim’s mood in the morning and texting him through the afternoon and evening, Sebastian was usually able to pick out a recipe he could make in the time allotted. And, when everything came together, the result was more satisfying than Sebastian could have predicted. 

There was just something about watching Jim eat. Sometimes Sebastian would grab a spot at the table and eat with him, but more often than not, he’d just stand at the kitchen counter, picking at leftovers and watching Jim. Jim demanded perfection in so much, but when he got it, he just drank it in. And it was fucking gorgeous. Jim ate slowly, taking delicate bites, one hand still on his phone, usually, but not moving as quick and skilled as it usually did. His dark eyes were gentler, the lids heavy, his mouth softer, curling up at the corners now and then, jaw tensing only to chew. Even when he was still wearing his suit, in those moments when Jim was sipping wine or tearing apart his bread, he seemed warm and human. Because of him. Because of the meals he had cooked. The experience wasn’t quite the hit of heroin he had been looking for, but in some ways it was better. It was satiating. And Jim seemed cheerier than usual too. 

Numbers of employee deaths were a rough metric of how Jim was feeling. Everyone suffered when Jim went into one of his bitter moods: men were sent on suicide missions and anyone who faltered or showed a moment’s weakness was slashed from the payroll. This was the longest Sebastian had ever seen the network go without a spur-of-the-moment execution.

February 7th, Jim came home half an hour early, and he was laughing. Warm and carefree in a way that Sebastian hadn’t heard before. There was nothing biting or cynical about it, just sheer delight. What the hell could have sparked that? Sebastian hardly had time to rinse his hands before Jim was on him, pressed close, fingers clawing into his shirt and hair dragging him around and down. Some part of him was still wondering about what had prompted Jim’s delight. Like it mattered when it made him electric, somehow, and hungry for Sebastian’s touch. Mostly what he appreciated was that it was better than the look he’d seen Jim give Hugo, before the truth of the scam had come to light. This was an order of magnitude more intense. And, if that didn’t translate into good news for him, nothing could. Sebastian didn’t get to appreciate it for very long, though.

“Tiger, my sweet Tiger,” Jim was speaking into his throat, lips and teeth brushing over his skin breath hot, words rolling off his tongue in waves, as though they could bypass his mind entirely. Thoughtless and pure. “My sweet, beautiful Tiger, I could just eat you up.” Goosebumps chased along Sebastian’s arms and he grabbed Jim’s hips, dragging him impossibly closer. The fabric of his trousers was smooth and silky, and it was lucky he was in such a wild mood because Sebastian was sure Jim usually wouldn’t tolerate carelessness with his designer clothes. Beneath the fabric though, he could feel Jim’s warmth. 

“I would let you.” 

“Of course you would, Tiger,” Jim purred, “There was never any question about that.” Jim's teeth closed on his earlobe—far too hard to be teasing or physically pleasurable, just feral and attention-grabbing but brief. Before Sebastian could do more than suck in a breath in surprise and pain, Jim was stepping back, smoothing down his tie. There was still that eldritch light in his eyes, like the glow of an anglerfish’s lure. “I’m going to get myself a drink, Sebby. And then, if you aren’t showered and in my bedroom, I’m going to phone a call boy.”


	28. Burst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim gets off, and Sebastian doesn't, predictably.

There had been times during his university days when Sebastian had found himself scrubbing off the reek of last night’s sweat, sex and booze ten minutes before the start of an exam. But this was the first time since then that he had been called upon to shower so fast again. If Jim had given him any warning, he could have shaved. Maybe made his nails look a little nicer. As it was, he had to settle for cleaning off the lingering odours of gunpowder and garlic from his hands, and giving his hair a quick rinse. What did he know? Maybe Jim liked stubbly kisses. More likely, though, Jim had been just as surprised by his cheerful mood as Sebastian. Unexpected good news. 

Sharply aware of the time constraint, Sebastian cut the water off and stepped out of the shower, listening for any sounds coming from the main room as he towelled off his hair and body. He could still pick up the faint sound of Jim’s footsteps on the kitchen tile, which he could only take as a good sign. Sebastian allowed himself a moment to relax—collecting himself as he studied his face in the mirror. Yeah, too scruffy, but in combination with the scars Jim loved to gape at, maybe he could call it rugged. Jim didn’t care, anyway. Jim had seen him and wanted him at least as much as he wanted a professional, and if Sebastian was good enough for Jim’s taste at the moment, that was all he should need. There was no point in being nervous. His entire adult life had prepared him for this. 

Sebastian pushed himself away from the counter and slung the towel around his waist before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway. It felt strange, walking past his own bedroom door towards Jim’s. This was the first time he had been given permission to enter it. No. No thought. No doubt. Not one fucking second more of delay. Sebastian opened the door. It took him a moment to overcome an unexpected twist of disappointment. Some part of him had been hoping that Jim’s room would be some sort of physical embodiment of him: a mystery to unravel. Instead, it looked almost identical to his own bedroom, just larger, with a bigger bed. No ornaments on the desk or dresser, a plain white duvet, a monochrome photo of some mountains framed on the wall, all fastidiously neat. It made sense that Jim wouldn’t want to leave personal traces. Maybe he wasn’t even interested in keeping little trinkets. 

The door opened behind him, and Sebastian turned to see Jim holding a nearly empty glass of rum punch. His tie was gone. His shiny black brogues too. But his eyes were still shining, and the smile he was wearing made Sebastian’s heart twist like was teetering on the end of a diving board. 

“You made it,” Jim said as he set his glass down on the dresser and took a step closer, “Good. Callboys are never as delectably eager to please as I think you’ll be in bed.” Jim’s cool fingers brushed the back of his hand and traced up his forearm, eyes dragging after, lingering on the scars and veins, “Anything for a scratch behind the ear and a word of praise, huh, Sebby?” Jim’s eyes finally flicked upward to meet his, the corners crinkling in an unreadable smile, wetting his lips. His tongue was too-red with grenadine. Sebastian took the jump.

“Shut up.” Sebastian grabbed Jim’s shoulder and shoved him backwards onto the bed. Jim was laughing before he even bounced against the mattress, eyes tight shut as he let his arms fall wide. “Shut up,” Sebastian said again. Was Jim aiming to make him feel impotent, or was he really this manic and gleeful? Either way, he followed after Jim onto the bed, knees bracketing his hips but not moving to pin him. Maybe he was reckless, but he still wasn’t about to make Jim feel backed into a corner. There was a decent chance that wasn’t a feeling he could inspire in Jim anyway, but it was worth a touch of caution to avoid. 

“Come here,” Jim wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes were open but only barely, and his hand reached out to grab Sebastian’s hair again. Like he couldn’t quite move fast enough for Jim. Fine by him. Jim’s lips tasted sweet under his. It was the sort of booze-sticky kiss he’d expect from someone at a bar, someone who knew that alcohol cheap enough to get plastered on wasn’t worth tasting straight. Except, like almost everything about Jim, it was somehow sharp and dangerous under the softness of his lips. And Jim’s rum was probably worth a few hundred dollars a bottle. Sebastian pulled away from the kiss to nose at the corner of Jim’s jaw, breathing in a trace of hours-old cologne and that same sandalwood hair product he always used. He was hard already, eager for his own sake, and eager too because Jim was right. He couldn’t resist the urge to please him, and show off a little bit. He’d been lusting after Jim for months, but that didn’t add up to even half his enthusiasm right now.

“Fuck. You always smell delicious,” Sebastian whispered, but Jim wasn’t listening. 

“Take that stupid towel off.” Jim had somehow managed to get his belt off during the kiss, and his dress shirt was open. There was a pale chest and soft stomach under those fancy designer clothes. He had known that from the start. But somehow it always caught him that Jim really was made of the same stuff he was. If he wanted to, he could put a hand around Jim’s throat and just squeeze... Jim caught him staring and like he could read his thoughts raised his chin a fraction of an inch, mouth cracking into a smile. An invitation Jim knew full well he wouldn’t dream of taking. “Towel.” 

“Shit. Yeah.” He threw it off, grinning when Jim cooed. 

“Ooh. Isn’t that lovely?” No one had ever put it exactly like that before but he’d take the compliment. Jim moved down the bed a couple inches, discarding his shirt as he went before wrapping a hand around Sebastian’s cock. Dry and cool and not too tight, the single, tender stroke shouldn’t have been particularly satisfying. But somehow, watching Jim do it, seeing the curious, calculating look on Jim’s face, was almost overwhelming. Sebastian huffed out a breath and dropped his head as Jim repeated the gesture, cock throbbing for want of contact when Jim’s fingers fell away. Anyone but Jim and he wouldn’t have resisted the impulse to touch in return. He could see the bulge of Jim’s erection in those ridiculously expensive trousers he loved so much.

“You like that?” 

“Very nice. I’ll enjoy it later.”

“Later?” Sebastian leaned in again to nip Jim’s earlobe in a gentle imitation of the criminal’s earlier, vicious bite, “And what about now?” Jim hummed, threading his fingers through Sebastian’s hair and stroking as though he were some overlarge cat. Tiger. Jim’s tiger. The thought bubbled to the top of his mind. Not for the first time. It was still satisfying.

“For now, I want your mouth.” And there was something about that thought—having Jim in such an intimate, vulnerable position, that made his skin go hot.

“I can do that.” 

“Good,” Sebastian fumbled at the button of Jim’s trousers, lust-drunk and clumsy. Jim groaned—not a happy sound—and gave his hair a sharp tug, “Hurry up.” 

“Sorry, Jim.” He got the trousers off, drinking in the sight of Jim lifting his hips up to help, keen for contact, and the swell of his dick in garish neon blue underwear. A weird contrast to his slick suit. He couldn’t help his laugh.

“What the fuck are these pants?” Jim’s eyes went wide, feigning hurt. 

“Don’t you like them? It’s not too late for me to find a whore.”

“No, I do. I do.” Sebastian lowered himself onto the bed, supporting himself with a forearm as he kissed from Jim’s sternum down to his belly, letting his lips rest for a moment at the place where skin met the band of Jim’s underwear. He’d had dreams like this before, but they didn’t prepare him for the reality. They only made the room fuzzy at the edges as he blurred the warmth against his lips and the fabric of Jim’s pants against his palm with his half-forgotten dreams. Jim squirmed, his fingertips pressing more firmly into the nape of Sebastian’s neck, urging him on. He wasn’t going to test Jim’s patience for too long. Not this first time, when it could so easily be torn away from him. Drawing back, he tugged them off, tossing them the way of the rest of Jim’s clothes. Jim’s cock curved up towards his belly, hard and flushed faintly pink, and Sebastian growled in satisfaction at the sight as he pressed a wet kiss to the head, “Have I ever told you you’re gorgeous?” Jim hissed, and Sebastian felt the muscles in his hip twitch beneath his hand.

“You’ve never told me, Tiger, but it’s written all over your face anytime you’re in the same room with me. Enough foreplay. I’m dying.” The final stressed word sent a thrill into his toes. That was all the urging Sebastian needed. He licked a broad stripe up Jim’s shaft then took him into his mouth. Clean skin, warm and velvet soft, pressed against his tongue. Above him, Jim moaned but didn’t move an inch. Which he could appreciate. He was hardly new to sucking dick, but it had been a while. Sebastian gave himself a moment to adjust. Measured breaths, relaxed jaw, the edges of his teeth shielded by his lips as he felt the delicate weight of Jim’s cock against his tongue, the drumming of his pulse, the way Jim’s hands were now relaxed in his hair. And the look on Jim’s face—what he could see of it, anyway—shit. Jim’s chin was tilted up, but he could still tell that his lips were parted, and his shoulders were slack. Just soaking it in, like Jim always seemed to do with things he really liked, and fuck if that wasn’t gratifying. 

Sebastian drew back an inch to get a better breath and a more comfortable position on the bed—leverage himself a bit better, and then took Jim fully into his mouth, swallowing down his gag reflex as the head nudged against the back of his throat. His eyes were already threatening to water, but Jim moaned again, soft and sweet as any sound Sebastian had ever heard him make, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about his own comfort. He could have teased Jim for ages, lapping over the glans, tracing the faint rise of veins with the tip of his tongue, leaving pretty bite marks up the insides of his thighs, seeing what reactions he could draw out of Jim, figure out how to play him. That wasn’t what Jim asked for, though, and he aimed to satisfy. So instead he set up a rhythm, quick and wet. No fucking around, taking Jim deep as he could every time, even when it made his throat and tongue spasm at the intrusion. His eyes were watering, so he closed them. There wasn’t much he could see from this angle anyway. Instead he focused on Jim’s warmth, the taste of his skin, now tinged with the tang of precum, the way his breaths had become audible. Gasping. 

Jim’s fingers twisted in his hair, not pulling, exactly, though the threat was there. Sebastian’s lungs were burning, but he didn’t want to draw away now, not since Jim had tightened his grip. But he could only survive so long off the little breaths he could catch around Jim’s cock, and his tears were threatening to make his nose run. So instead he shifted his free hand to splay against Jim’s lower belly, stroking in small, soothing circles as he pressed forward until his nose was pressed against skin, tongue rolling up against the underside of Jim’s cock. 

“Fuck—“ And that whispered curse was worth the choking that followed after as Jim came down his throat. The faint taste of it rose to the back of his tongue as he coughed and tried to draw away, but Jim’s hands remained firm in his hair. Sebastian tried to catch his breath still holding Jim’s cock in his mouth, swallowing spasmodically, but after several seconds, he finally dragged himself away, wincing as Jim’s fingers tugged at his hair before releasing him limply. Peeling his eyes open, Sebastian coughed and dragged in a few ragged breaths of air before recovering himself, wiping the saliva off his chin. Only then did he take a good look at Jim.

The Irishman was sprawled across the rumpled duvet, pink-cheeked and dewy-browed, his dark eyes half-lidded. He looked happy, if a bit exhausted. A grin crept over Sebastian’s lips as he lay down beside Jim, nosing into the crook of his neck as he turned into Jim’s side, pressing his achingly hard cock against the line of Jim’s hip. 

“You like that, kitten?” Jim’s eyes slid open a bit wider, but he didn’t comment on the pet name. 

“You’ve got a clever tongue, Sebby. Very good.” Sebastian beamed into Jim’s throat.

“Good. So did you want to—“

“Unless you’re asking if I want to take a nap, the answer is no, darling.” That put something of a puncture in the balloon that had been swelling in his chest. His brow furrowed.

“But I—“

“Oh, I can feel it, Tiger. And I’m sure we’ll have some fun together later. But I’m tired now. Would you like to take a nap with me, or would you like to go take care of yourself?” Sebastian stilled as he considered the question. He let the silence hang several seconds longer than it took him to answer.

“I’ll just stay here with you.” Something about the way Jim’s teeth showed in that smile suggested to him that Jim had known the answer to that question before he asked it. 

“Alright then, Sebby. Get off the bed for just a moment.” Sebastian dragged himself to his feet, still feeling too warm and too tense, sniffing as sure enough his nose began to run. Jim pulled back the covers, fluffed them out, then wriggled under them, before gesturing to him. Sebastian lowered himself to the mattress, falling still as Jim rolled over, draping an arm over his waist and sighing. And really, that was pretty fucking charming too, despite the fact that used him and left him unsatisfied. He wasn’t surprised, really. Just like Jim to pull something like that, even in bed. He shifted, trying to ignore the needy throbbing of his dick as Jim settled into sleep. Sebastian didn’t end up getting even a second of sleep during Jim’s forty minute nap.


	29. Me and Him, He and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian discovers what put Jim in such a happy mood. Sebastian isn't too thrilled about it, though.

They had coffee after the nap, though Jim didn’t seem to need the energy. He could be still, if he wanted to. He was, much of the time, posing like some wax figure of himself: eerily still. Now, though, Jim’s unruffled movements were replaced with a fervour that had only been dulled a little by sex and sleep. Mug of coffee held tight in his hands, he paced the main room like a caged animal, bristling and still naked, except for his silk robe. Sebastian had put his shirt and boxers back on. Somehow Jim would find a way to scold him if he went shirtless. Sebastian had been hoping he could figure out what had happened to spark all this, but as it turned out, he wasn’t called upon to deduce or cajole. He’d only taken the first few sips of his coffee before Jim spilled like a split shopping bag. 

“One of the people I have my eye on did something interesting about a week ago. And I just read the loveliest blog about it.” This was a fragile opportunity. If he showed too much interest, or too little, or if he asked a question Jim thought was too obvious or too invasive, the criminal’s mania could turn to anger in a millisecond. This was something along the lines of Jim’s interest in Hugo. That was clear. But that was probably a quick way to piss Jim off. Better to go broader.

“A person to play your game with?”

“Yes. He has been on my radar for a very long time. Amateur detective. Brother a powerful and very clever member of the government, though I knew of him even before his sibling crafted a throne for himself. Another childhood connection. You were the first person to ever kill for me, Tiger. He was the first person to be suspicious of one of my orchestrated murders.” 

“Katie Mullins?”

“No. That one didn’t raise any eyebrows. Later. A boy named Carl Powers.” Envy, cold and bitter, had sapped the enthusiasm from Sebastian’s blood at Jim’s mention of the childhood connection he had with this detective. It was softened, though, when Jim made it clear that their interaction had come first. Sebastian wasn’t much of a believer in destiny, but if the red string of fate had tied any of them together, it had bound him and Jim first. “He was another one who thought he could laugh at me without suffering any consequences. I showed him too… Stop wearing that stupid look. This is a happy occasion.” Sebastian tried to relax his jaw, to make his eyes less hard, more inquiring. 

“Sorry. This better?” Jim pulled a face, lip twisting.

“I suppose I didn’t hire you for your acting ability, but you really are terrible. You have no reason to be jealous, Sebby. He could never usurp you from your post. He would never be my bodyguard or my toy. But he just might be my new playmate.” Not the comfort he was looking for. No comfort at all, really. It was all he could expect, though. “Have you been following the news at all?” Sebastian shrugged.

“Rugby news. That’s about it.”

“Shame. You haven’t heard about the serial suicides, then? The man ostensibly responsible was stopped about a week ago, by my childhood friend. The cop to my robber. The detective to my criminal mastermind.” The wording won a smile out of him, even as he felt his heart twist tight again. 

“Ostensibly.”

“Ostensibly, yes.”

“But you hatched the scheme, I’m guessing.”

“That’s why this is all so exciting!” Jim beamed the cold, reptilian version of his smile, before taking a slow sip of his coffee, “He solved it. He figured it out. Well, he had help. My beneficiary was dying to get caught, seemingly, and he made a mistake. Still, it was a brilliant solve, and he was oh so eager to come out and play. He was willing to die to win. I love people like that. The ones who are willing to raise the stakes as high as they can go just for the fun of it.” He sighed like a fucking love-struck teenager, but that mad light was still glinting in his eyes. A razor in a candy apple. Something struck Sebastian as odd, though. 

“What do you have to gain from mentoring a serial killer? There’s just risk, no money, no power. Not even recognition, if all goes as planned. Unless you were using him as a hitman.” It wasn’t like the drug deals, or the weapons and information trading, or the consulting work that Jim had built his empire on. There was no practical element whatsoever. 

“No. I lost money, actually. I paid him to kill random people.”

“You paid him?”

“Call it charity work. I have to build a little good karma.” Jim’s tongue slid over his lower lip, before his mouth eased into another smile. Sebastian tore his eyes away, swirling his coffee in the mug. 

“Of course. That makes sense.” 

“Well, why do you think I did it, Tiger? It’s really not that difficult.” 

“Boredom.” He didn’t even have to think about it. 

“Ding ding ding! Congratulations to tonight’s winner, Sebastian Moran. Please step forward to collect your prize.” He was using a voice that advertised a joke, but that made no difference. Sebastian couldn’t resist the temptation. There was no helping it. Shit-eating grin flashing across his face, he took a step towards Jim. Jim’s eyes grew wide for a bare second, before crinkling into laugh lines at the corners. Good mood, still. He hadn’t pushed too far. Fantastic. Sebastian would take the benefits of Jim’s high with the gut punches. 

“Oooh. Being literal this evening are you? Alright. I did offer. I’ll let you keep me honest, for now.” He could nearly see the calculations going on in Jim’s head. It was six seconds before Jim put down his coffee and took Sebastian’s free hand in his own. His fingers were warm, for once, from the mug, and with a slow certainty, Jim guided his hand up. What the hell was this? He wasn’t going to turn down hand-holding, but—then Jim tilted his chin up, and Sebastian got it. Jim pressed Sebastian’s hand to his throat, and nudged his fingers down. Sebastian could feel Jim’s pulse tapping like a metronome against the web of skin between his thumb and index finger, could feel the reverberation of Jim’s vocal cords against his palm. 

“I saw you look earlier. Was this what you were envisioning? Your hand wrapped around my throat?” Jim paused, and his dark eyes flickered across Sebastian’s face like he was reading the ticker on the morning news. Sebastian didn’t answer. Jim could just soak in whatever information he needed from his expression. Words were superfluous. “Go on, Tiger. Squeeze harder. I can hardly feel you.” Sebastian applied more pressure—pressed his fingertips into the tendons of Jim’s neck and the heel of his hand against Jim’s windpipe. Not cutting off the air, but letting Jim feel it. It looked uncomfortable, at least. How was his pulse still so slow and even? Not a stutter or a missed beat, no change in tempo, just the clock-like thud against his skin. Sebastian’s own heart outpaced Jim’s now, though he was damn near certain his resting heart rate was lower. Their eyes met, and Sebastian tightened his jaw as he felt his stomach lurch. Not a sexual thrill, but something in the same family that Sebastian couldn’t quite name. Maybe Jim wasn’t the only one capable of doing a decent impression of lovesickness. Jim hummed before tapping Sebastian’s wrist. He let go at once and pulled away, letting Jim rub at his neck. 

“Interesting. Did you enjoy that, Bastian?” Sebastian shrugged. 

“I would have preferred a kiss, I think.”

“Oh, well. We’re done with that for now. Back to the matter at hand. My new friend.” Sebastian exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been keeping back and retreated to the counter, just slumping against it. Right. Jim’s new playmate. 

“So he caught this murderer, your beneficiary, a week ago. Why the big thrill now? What’s he done?”

“Nothing beyond that. But I wasn’t watching, you see, Sebby. I have so many fingers in so many pies that I can’t constantly monitor all of them. I knew it was him, of course. He’s been on my radar since the beginning. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. But I didn’t know all of the details, and that’s where the truth lies. But he very recently got himself a little pet. Funny. I feel like such a trendsetter. Same make, even. Different models, but there are only so many colonels to go around. He got the economy version.” Jim smirked. Maybe he should have been insulted, but all Sebastian felt was a dull blush of pride that Jim thought him superior in some sense to this sleuth's military companion. “And his pet has been blogging about him. Adorable stories. He’s in love. Shame you can’t blog about me. I think I would enjoy reading that… Now I know the details. Now I’m excited. We’re going to have such fun together,” Sebastian knew what was coming next and masked his grimace behind a particularly large gulp of coffee, “He and I.”


	30. A Study in Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian plays Jim's L-pill game with lower stakes.

“I just had a date, Tiger,” Sebastian looked up from the telly as Jim waltzed into the flat. It was well past midnight. Jim did that, sometimes. Disappeared late at night on days when Sebastian expected him home at his usual time. Good a reason as any to watch a movie Jim would think was dull and eat an ice lolly. No Country for Old Men and blue raspberry tonight. Jim wasn’t wearing a suit. Not even a blazer or a button-up. Just jeans and a tee-shirt that was a bit too small. When he stretched his arms above his head, Sebastian could see a flash of pale belly and a peeking happy trail. It looked so unlike anything Jim might actually wear that Sebastian’s initial stab of jealousy and hurt got swallowed up by a smile. “Second date, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Who with?”

“A pathologist. Works in the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s. Clever woman. A bit mousy, maybe, and in love with a man who has no romantic interest in women, which is a shame for her, but…“ Sebastian scoffed. 

“Second date and she loves you?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean me, Tiger.” The way Jim’s eyes went glassy bright told Sebastian everything he needed to know.

“Your ‘friend’.”

“Yes.” After that first night, Jim hadn’t talked much about his favourite detective. Business went on as usual. People got shot. He took brief trips abroad, leaving Jim alone in London with chicken pot pie or ham and leek casserole in ramekins: he never mentioned them, and neither did Jim, but they were always gone when he got back. He tried to resist the temptation to find the blog detailing the solving of the serial suicide case. Sebastian held out on that front for about a week. It took some doing, but he found it. One thing was clear from the blog, beyond the details of the case. Jim was right. John Watson was infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. 

The joke was clear now, too. John was a beat up military man. Highly educated. But no intellectual match for Sherlock. The detective was a genius who had found a pet soldier, but Jim had done it first, and scored a colonel, rather than a captain. Sebastian had kept his mouth shut about the pair, though. He wasn’t interested in hearing Jim wax poetic about Sherlock. Damn, it stung to think about. And it sucked a lot of the humour out of the premise of Jim’s story. Sebastian felt the unspoken threat heavy in his chest.

“He’s not interested in women?”

“Oh, certainly not.”

“Gay?” Jim shrugged minutely, strolling over to the fridge to take out the plate Sebastian had prepared for him, plucking out a cashew and popping it into his mouth, chewing slowly as he fetched a fork from the drawer.

“Maybe. Maybe aromantic. Difficult to say. I haven’t met him yet.” Jim was standing behind him, plate in hand, toying with his food, though his eyes were fixed on the television screen. The motel shootout scene was playing. Sebastian took another lick of his ice lolly. Jim pulled a face as Chigurh shot a third man, hiding in the shower. 

“I don’t see why you’re watching this movie. What’s the point of going to all of this trouble if he’s not going to try to have any fun? There’s no such thing as fate, anyway. No ‘destiny’. So all of his lectures turn out hollow.” Jim cast his voice lower, doing his best Chigurh impression, “‘It’s been travelling twenty-two years to get here, and now it’s here.’ Boring! I like my version of the coin toss better.” Sebastian’s mouth twitched. 

“The one you stole from The Princess Bride.” 

“I may have drawn a bit of inspiration. But I’ve never actually watched the film. A coin toss is all chance. With mine there was something to try to figure out.” 

“Still seems like chance to me.” That struck a match behind Jim’s eyes. This was going to be fun. Ditching his plate of cashew chicken on the table, Jim walked around the sofa, kneeling on the other side of the coffee table. Sebastian bit off the rest of his ice lolly and reached over to grab the remote, pausing the movie. 

“Let’s play the game, then, Sebastian. I bet I can beat you. Best two out of three.” 

“What do you bet?” 

“If I win, you give up all cigarettes. Permanently. No more sneaking. If you win, I’ll tell you about my date. Trust me, you want to hear. It’s so funny.” Jim smiled the slow smile that made Sebastian want to grab the front of his shirt and wrench him into a kiss. 

“It’s a deal.” Sebastian said. Jim reached into the television cabinet and removed the handgun he kept stashed there, taking out the cartridge and removing two of the bullets, before setting them on the coffee table. Sebastian leaned forward, forearms on his knees, intent as Jim studied the bullets, rolling them back and forth with his fingers. “You know the rules.” Their eyes locked, Jim’s hand stilled, and then he pushed one bullet across the table towards Sebastian. “Dud or killer, Tiger? Which one did I give you?” 

It was a simple question, same as a coin toss, with one right answer and one wrong one. No fuzzy margin. No room for error. If he picked one at random, he would be right fifty percent of the time. But that wasn’t the point. Jim wanted him to think about it. Wanted him to play the game. Would Jim give him the good bullet or the bad bullet? No. That was the wrong way to think about it. Which one would Jim think Sebastian wouldn’t choose? That was where the good bullet would be. There was no difference between the two bullets, but his eyes flicked between them, like he could read the identities Jim had assigned them with a good, long look. Jim was watching him too, head cocked in that questioning way he did when he was waiting for a reaction. There wasn’t enough information to make any sort of educated guess. Sebastian bit the side of his tongue, and then straightened up a little.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” 

“Do you think I’m the sort of person to accept anything you give to me?” Jim’s eyebrows rose.

“Is that the tactic you’re using to figure this out? I know you’re a gambling man, Tiger, but my poker face is better than yours. I don’t think you’ll get anything out of that way.” Sebastian shrugged. 

“Worth a try. I thought maybe you’d play the game.”

“I am already. I’m not breaking any rules. But even if I was going to answer your question, it wouldn’t help you very much anyway.”

“How is that?” Jim smiled.

“Yes.” Sebastian stared at him, tracing the thread of the conversation back until that one word response made sense. 

“That’s the answer to my question?” Jim didn’t twitch a muscle.

“That’s the answer I’m giving.” Shit. Jim was right. It didn’t help. It was still either the truth or a bluff, and Sebastian could not read the difference in Jim’s face. Sebastian’s fingers twitched on his knees as he stared at the two bullets. One or the other would put him one step out of two closer to a story. Maybe a little inside joke with Jim. Either the one Jim had given him, or the one Jim had kept. Too much hesitation. He had to go. Had to pick now. Right now. Just---

He never should have agreed to give up cigarettes.


	31. Opening Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim begins his game with Sherlock. Sebastian is not thrilled.

He woke up shaky and irritable, longing for a cigarette. Just one—to take the edge off. Jim would sure as shit notice, though, and Sebastian wasn’t interested in catching hell for that. But there was good news. Sebastian didn’t need to win a stupid game of chance or intuition or whatever the fuck Jim’s pill game was to get at least part of an interesting story. 

Self-respect be damned, Sebastian had trawled through the internet for a few hours the night before until he found the blog of a pathologist who worked at St Bart’s, all saccharine pink florals and cat pictures. Nice. Sweet, though she wrote like she didn’t think anyone was reading. Maybe no one else was. Maybe it was just Jim, Molly, and himself. Somehow, it was fitting. Gentleness aside, he saw echoes of her in himself. Molly—like John Watson, like himself—was in love with an aloof genius. And according to her, the head over heels infatuation thing was new. But Sherlock, like Jim, was blisteringly clever, cool but off-kilter, and really fucking fit; twisting plans, undermining common sense, and making mice out of mankind. He could sympathize. The funny bit, though, was Jim himself. 

There wasn’t much material to read through, but the bits that were there were golden. Jim flirting with her, all synthetic awkwardness, as he posed as an IT guy working a night shift. Considering how late Jim had been getting back these past few nights, he might have actually been puttering away behind a desk at the hospital, which was a picture in itself. Jim helping Molly crack a cipher posted on Sherlock’s blog. It was tempting to read through that mess and see what all the fuss was about, but on that count, he managed to restrain himself. The thought of Sherlock left a bitter taste on his tongue, and considering all the attention everyone was paying him, he could only be overhyped. Even if he was as amazing as Jim and Molly and John all seemed to think (and god, the fallout from Hugo notwithstanding he hoped he wasn’t) it didn’t matter. Sebastian had his own emotionally-unavailable genius to pine after. As far as details about Molly’s date with Jim the IT guy went, though, nada. When Sebastian checked again in the morning, there still wasn’t an update. Later, maybe. Or maybe that was a bit too private for her to share online. He showered, dressed, and went out into the main room. 

Jim was there, sitting in his armchair, silk robe thrown on over last night’s clothes. His laptop was open on his knees, and a mug was sitting on the side table, beside a plate that looked licked clean. Jim had eaten his dinner, and liked it. Time for breakfast, then. Sebastian walked over to the stove and turned it on, setting a frying pan on the burner before going to fetch eggs, cheese and spinach out of the refrigerator, fingers drumming on the counter as he waited for the pan to heat. At least physical withdrawal symptoms shouldn’t last more than three or four days. According to the internet, anyway. That wasn’t the worst bit, though. His mind was tossing. If he could just settle and focus, the rest would be that much easier. 

The whole room smelled like coffee. The pot was nearly full. Jim had likely gone through one already before making a fresh one. Work to do, then. Not just one of his sporadic bursts of insomnia. It meant a bad mood. Or a good one. Trouble, or his new playmate. There wasn’t too much point figuring out which. Jim would make it obvious soon, Sebastian was sure. He tried again to rein in his thoughts and refocus on making omelettes. Across the room, Jim sighed like he had just slipped into a hot bath, and Sebastian spotted him stretching his arms over his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Tiger, this is going to be such a lovely day, full of wonderful surprises. Twists and turns. Live entertainment. Absolutely delicious…” So it was Sherlock, then. Not some important job gone horribly wrong. Considering Jim’s ‘date’ yesterday, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Sebastian bit back the urge to gripe. He could clamp down on the flare of annoyance for now, eat and get out of the flat as soon as possible, and leave Jim to giggle delightedly over his game far out of earshot. That should be enough for him. Or not: Jim, apparently, didn’t like the silence. He was watching him now over his laptop, eyes gleaming. “If you get a chance, try to tune into the news. I know it’s not usually your cup of tea, but it will be relevant to me, which will make it interesting to you, won’t it? Eight-thirty, nine-ish. Don’t believe the interpretation of the evidence. Still, the footage itself will be real. It’s my Queen’s Gambit. And stop reading Molly’s blog, by the way. You lost your bet.” Jim smiled a Cheshire smile, but Sebastian couldn’t get much of a buzz off of that. It wasn’t really for him. The intended recipient was blocks away on Baker Street, probably.

“Chess, is that?” Jim rolled his eyes. 

“How is it possible for a halfway pedigreed toff to avoid learning even the basics of chess?“ 

“People don’t generally bet on chess, so my father wasn’t interested and neither was I.” 

“Are you sure you were discouraged from returning to Eton because of fighting, as opposed to being so lowbrow?”

“Couldn’t tell you for sure. But if I had to bet, it would be because of the broken noses and concussions.”

“At least you have your looks. What are you making?” The compliment, even if it was backhanded, sated him a little. That was really all it took. Not surprising at this stage, but damn. It should have stung his pride, realizing how much he hung on Jim’s praise. It didn’t. 

“Just an omelette. Toast too, if you want.”

“Fine. And get me another coffee? That’s my good little lamb-chop.” Sebastian pulled a face, but left his cooking to refill the mug, glancing up at Jim when his mouth pulled into an exaggerated ‘O’. “Oooh, not a fan of that one, hm? Sebby, Bastian, Tiger, honey: all fine. Not lamb-chop though. Too belittling? Too twee?” It was actually the sheep parallel that had caught him poorly, though Jim’s suggested reasons made more sense.

“Something along those lines, yeah.”

“Aww. That’s why I like it. Oh well. We can stick with ‘Tiger’ for now.”

“Much obliged.” 

Jim cleaned his plate in record time, each mouthful lubricated with a gulp of coffee, fingers darting from mug to fork to the keys of his laptop, flighty as Sebastian felt—though despite the sheer volume of coffee Jim had downed, his hands were only just shaking. Today, watching him eat wasn’t half as satisfying as it usually was. Once he finished, Jim rose to his feet, pushing his plate in Sebastian’s general direction. 

“Don’t forget to check the news this morning, Sebby. You’re only on call today, so I’m sure you’ll find the time. I’ve got things to do, parts to play… And remember, no nicotine. Not even patches.” Sebastian flexed his fingers as Jim walked spryly down the hall to his bedroom, robe fluttering behind him. Not even a patch. They hadn’t agreed on that. What a bastard. He was washing the dishes when Jim re-emerged twenty minutes later in tight trousers, a flash of something neon green showing about the waistline, a thin V-neck... 

“I didn’t know you could be a twink at thirty-five,” Sebastian shot at his back over a sink full of soapy water. Jim smiled at him over his shoulder as he fingered his phone by the door. 

“Think he’ll like it?” 

“I can see your underwear.” 

“That a yes?” Sebastian couldn’t think up a good response quickly enough, so he only turned back to the dishes. He sensed Jim’s smile before the criminal grabbed his coat and slipped out the door. Interesting tactic to try and determine if someone else was gay—because that was all Sebastian could imagine Jim was doing. How the hell it was supposed to work was another question, but Jim knew how to figure people out. Sebastian was confident the plan would tell Jim what he needed to know. 

No texts came from Jim to give him any sort of work, so when 8:45 rolled around, Sebastian turned the television on and flipped it over to the news. Sure enough, a scene of bloodless destruction filled the screen. Brickwork and glass was strewn over a street sealed off by policeman, blasted out from a scorched hole in the façade of a building. A headline blazed across the bottom of the screen: ‘Apparent gas explosion destroys homes on Baker St’. That was a puzzle to piece together. Why the hell would Jim blow up a house on his favourite new toy’s street? He wasn’t trying to kill Sherlock. That much he knew. But then why? Jim had called this his Queen’s Gambit. It was his first move in a chess game, and apparently it wasn’t to be taken at face value. It wasn’t actually a gas explosion. So there had to be some sort of clue to let a trained observer in on what was going on. Whatever that was, Sebastian wasn’t privy to it. Jim was just letting him watch the game. He wasn’t explaining any of the rules. And for once, Jim was wrong. This was one aspect of the Irishman’s life that he wasn’t interesting in spectating on. It was boring. Really fucking dull. 

He wished he could drink. He wished he could smoke. Since that was denied him, Sebastian played eighteen games of solitaire on his phone, and then went grocery shopping.


	32. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian is made to participate in Jim's game, and meets his less sinister counterpart.

Jim didn’t show his face for the rest of that day. Or the next day. Or the next morning. The silence might have had Sebastian concerned, except for his utter confidence in Jim. Worrying about Jim stumbling into danger in London was as ridiculous as worrying gravity might suddenly stop working. He was still on call, though, with little to think about but what Jim was up to, and little to do beyond cooking meals that Jim never came home for. It was evening on the second day when he finally got a text. Sebastian was hardly dressed, indulging in another movie night—Spirited Away and a cola Calippo—when his phone buzzed. He lunged for it.

‘Queen’s Gambit accepted, Tiger. Nf3. Please collect our sweet Watson and bring him to me. I’m sure I don’t have to include a picture. Don’t hurt a hair on his precious head. Don’t want to upset Sherlock too much. Bring something sedating. I’ll give you his mobile number. He may just come along with you if you ask him through text. Time is of the essence. Chop-chop. –M’

Sebastian opened the ‘current jobs’ folder in his phone. Sure enough, there was a mobile number and a map with a red pin over what looked to be an indoor pool and a flashing black marker. Must be John. So, he wasn’t permitted to ignore Jim’s game, or even just sit back and be a spectator. Jim was actually going to use him as a chess-piece. An important chess-piece, seeing as he was kidnapping Sherlock’s personal blogger. Did that make things better or worse? He wouldn’t be forgotten, at least. Not for now, anyway. That was a small comfort. 

Sebastian downed the rest of his ice lolly, turned off the movie, and scrambled to put some work clothes on. Eight minutes, and he was in a company cab with a cloth and a bottle of chloroform, getting close to that slowly moving blip on the map. And then, sure enough, there was the man himself. Sebastian had pictured him taller, somehow, just going off the headshot. More powerfully built. A doctor, yeah, but a military doctor. Emphasis on the ‘military’. 

“Pull over to the side here,” Sebastian said to the cabbie, watching John glance over as the car slowed down. Sebastian tapped out a text. What had happened to indicate to Jim that John would willingly get into a stranger’s cab if asked nicely, he had no fucking idea, but he could count the times Jim’s information had been incorrect on one hand, so he fired off the message anyway. 

‘Get into the cab, John.’ 

Sure enough, John retrieved his phone from his pocket, took one glance at the screen, then looked directly at the cab stopped beside him. With hardly a moment of hesitation, John started over, popped open the cab door, and slid in next to Sebastian.

“I’ve got a phone,” John said, sounding not very surprised at all, which was weird. Did this sort of thing happen often to him? He sounded more annoyed than anything else. “You’ve got my number. Can’t Mycroft just call me, or give me an address and ask me to go somewhere? Every other time he wants to talk, does it have to be some mysterious car? What’s this about, then? We already got a confession out of Joe Harrison.” John fixed Sebastian with a good, hard look. Sebastian did his best to seem impassive rather than confused. Something new dawned on John’s face. “Where’s Anthea?” Like he had any idea who that was.

“Not here.” The cab pulled away from the curb, heading towards the meetup place. 

“Oh. Right. Okay. What’s your name, then?” Would Jim be stroppy if he gave his real name? First names didn’t disclose much. It was probably alright. 

“Sebastian.”

“Is that your real name? Or do all of you have… secret identities or something?” What sort of people had John been dealing with that he had to ask a question like that? Was life with Sherlock really that exciting? Might as well play along, though. It would make his life that much easier. 

“You tell me.” John was silent for a moment. Sebastian turned to look out the side window, but he could feel John’s eyes on him.

“So, do you get time off when Anthea is working?” This was utterly surreal, because Sebastian was pretty damn sure that the man he was kidnapping—albeit without his knowledge—was trying to chat him up. He swallowed a smile and kept his eyes fixed out the window. Better to keep up the act if he could. John let the silence drag on for a little bit before exhaling a noisy puff of air and turning away. The silence extended for the rest of the ride. John was taciturn. Probably still annoyed. Sebastian was lying in wait. Presumably Jim’s suggestion that he bring something sedating meant that he wanted John out of commission, and it would be easier to do that before he realized it was Moriarty he was being brought to meet, not whoever the fuck Mycroft was. At the same time, chloroform only lasted so long, and Sebastian would rather not dose him more than once if he could help it. Jim might want him on his feet at some point. The bottle weighed heavy in his hand, small though it was. It was only when the cab was pulling to a stop in front of a building housing a pool that he twisted open the cap and doused the cloth before sealing the bottle again. John looked over at him, then glanced down at the cloth and bottle. 

“What—“ Sebastian didn’t give him time to get further than that. Grabbing the back of John’s head with one hand and bodily pinning his right arm to his side, Sebastian pressed the rag over John’s nose and mouth. John bucked back against him, trying to turn his head away, before pulling his left fist back. The punch connected to Sebastian’s nose and cheek, but between the surprise and the constriction of the car, on top of the chloroform setting in, it was more painful than actually damaging. Sebastian flinched away, smelling metal, feeling a faint trickle of blood working its way down one of his nostrils, but he didn’t pull back. John’s consciousness was failing fast, and when he slumped into the seat, Sebastian stashed the rag under the seat in front of him, pocketed the chloroform, just in case, and dragged John out of the cab. The area was silent and empty. Good. With some doing, he hoisted John into a fireman’s carry over his shoulders, and started towards the building. The cab pulled away behind him. Blood dribbled over his lips, down his chin, dripping onto his shirt. Sebastian ignored it. 

The main entrance into the building had been left unlocked, though most of the lights were out. Chatter down the hallway. Cleaners? Sebastian pulled away from the door into a small alcove, listening to the conversation. 

“—thing where you start to wonder if he’s even a real person. And then you get a text.”

“I still wonder. It doesn’t have to be him, does it? He could be an actor hired to be the face of a group.”

“He’s probably listening. You might want to watch yourselves.” 

“I’m not saying anything wrong.”

“Still.”

That didn’t sound like a chatting janitorial staff. His phone buzzed in his pocket and, grabbing John’s wrist with his offhand, Sebastian fished it out of his pocket.

‘You two are adorable. You can prep with your teammates in a minute. Bring John down to the pool. Don’t keep me waiting. –M’ 

So the people talking were Jim’s, then. But that didn’t mean they were expecting him. Better not to startle criminals who were probably carrying guns. 

“Hey, I’m with Moriarty. Don’t shoot me. Going down to the pool,” He called, hitching John up on his shoulders as he started down the hall. The talking went silent for a second before a blonde-haired woman stepped out of a doorway that led off the main hall.

“You must be Sebastian. Moriarty said you’d be leading us today.”

“Yeah? Well, he didn’t tell me that. But I’m not surprised. Tell the others to wait here until I’ve dropped him off.” He quirked his head back at John, and the woman nodded, disappearing back into the room. The talk continued, but Sebastian had stopped listening. He worked his way through the building, following the signs that led into the dressing rooms—damp, warm, and chlorine-scented—then out onto the walkway that bordered the pool.


	33. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets a very brief briefing on Jim's expectations for the evening, and Sherlock arrives on the scene for the showdown at the pool.

Jim was waiting for him there, eyes fixed on his phone, bouncing up and down on his toes. Too much energy to contain. He had dressed up for the occasion, whatever this occasion was. Dark suit. Slicked back hair. A fresh-pressed shirt. Menswear catalogue sleek. Sebastian stopped a pace or two before him.

“Skulls,” He nodded in the direction of Jim’s tie, which was printed with miniature skulls, interspersed with even smaller polka dots, “You don’t think that’s too… on the nose?” 

“It’s Alexander McQueen, Sebastian. And Sherlock likes skulls. Decorates his flat with them. I think it’s a little macabre, but I hope he’ll appreciate it.” Of course he would be dressing special for Sherlock again. Why the fuck not? Jim finally looked up, assessing John before actually looking at him. “You’re bleeding, Tiger. At least you’re not wearing anything decent.” The blood flow had slowed. Sebastian could feel it clotting in his nose. 

“Yeah. He clocked me.” 

“You obeyed your orders, though.”

“Not a scratch on him.”

“Good,” Jim smiled, sliding his phone into his trouser pocket, “Put that coat on him. He has to be dressed for the show.” Sebastian dropped to his knees and eased John down off his shoulders, letting him slump against the wall. He could feel Jim’s gaze like static electricity prickling the back of his neck as he straightened up again, wiping the blood from his nose and mouth with a sleeve before glancing around for the coat Jim had brought for John. When he saw it, it was hard to understand how he had missed it. 

It was only a dozen meters away: an ugly winter coat with fur trim, bulging with what looked like charges of plastic explosives. What was Jim playing at? Why bother with a suicide vest if he had a team of trained gunmen at his beck and call? Why the extra element of risk and uncertainty. Since his employment with Jim had begun, all of his shots had a one hundred percent fatality rate, no collateral. If he wanted to make it clear to Sherlock that John’s life was on the line, wouldn’t the red dot of a laser scope on his forehead do the trick? Why throw enough explosives to kill everyone in a fifty foot radius into the mix? It created the potential for a game of chicken that he didn’t want Jim to play. 

Picking up the coat, he turned around to carry it back over to John. Jim had crouched down beside the unconscious man, and was nestling what looked like a Bluetooth into his ear. He drew away when Sebastian approached.

“Go on then, Tiger.” The questions he had just posed to himself weighed heavy on Sebastian’s tongue as he began pulling the coat sleeves up John’s arms. He considered going along with the plan silently for only a second or two before giving in to curiosity and common sense.

“What’s the point of the explosives, Jim? You worried I won’t be able to do the job to satisfaction?”

“Not at all,” Jim said, “But I am playing a game, aren’t I?”

“So?” Jim crooked a smile.

“You’re a gambling man, Sebastian. You play games too. You tell me.” The answer was as obvious as it was infuriating. Poker couldn’t be played if only one person put up an ante. Jim was intentionally getting his skin in the game. 

“Couldn’t you be the dealer or something in this metaphor, instead?”

“Not at all. The dealer doesn’t have any fun. What’s the matter, Sebby? Worried for my safety?”

“I’m worried for my job security.” Jim smiled that damn smug smile that reminded Sebastian of a fat cat basking in the sun. 

“I don’t doubt that, Sebastian. But that’s not what I asked.” He wasn’t really in the mood to play this game.

“Seems like you already know the answer to the question you asked.”

“Of course I know. I’d just like to hear you say it.” Sebastian stepped back from John, the explosive vest secured, studying Jim’s expression. He’d done away with most of the smugness at least, though the earnest gleam in his eyes could only be an act.

“I’d rather not see you dead. I thought I’d made that pretty obvious. I care about you.” And now the response would come. Something sharp and silver-tongued about the dangers of sentimentality, maybe, or an anti-Shakespearean quote about the folly of love. Instead, Jim just stared at him for another second or two before taking his mobile out of his pocket again.

“You met your crew already,” Jim drawled, not looking up from the screen, “You should join them right away. Curtain rises at midnight. Oh—this will be fun. You’re playing the game too, Sebastian. I won’t be able to give you much direction while Sherlock is here. It would ruin the rhythm of the banter I’m hoping we’ll have. Use your best judgement to protect me, but do not kill Sherlock or John unless I give the order. Otherwise, do whatever you believe needs to be done. I trust you. There’s an upper floor overlooking the pool. Set up shop there. Stay out of sight unless it’s completely unavoidable. I’d rather Sherlock not know your face. Hurry hurry, now.” 

It was an enormous demand—to predict how Jim would prefer that he respond to a changing situation without direct cues, and then command a small squad to follow through with those orders. Sebastian still hadn’t decided if he preferred being involved in Jim’s idiotic contest to waiting on the side-lines. He didn’t have a choice either way. Still, Sebastian couldn’t help but mull over the dull ache in his chest and twisting of his stomach. He mopped the last of the congealing blood from his mouth and nose, nodded, and turned away.

Sebastian retraced his steps to the entryway where he had first encountered his crew for the night’s mission. They were still chatting as he let himself into the small office they had staked out. There were three of them, all dressed in the same nondescript clothes, equally well suited for wet work or a cold mid-morning job, and carrying bags Sebastian could only assume contained rifles. A fourth had been placed on a desk. For him, probably, but not the one Jim had gifted him with a few months back. He could tell the case wasn’t his at least, despite the fact it was identical in size and brand to the one that should be stashed in his bedroom. The strap and the zippers had been done up differently, and it was showing a small amount of wear in the wrong places. The thought that he would have to shoot with a rifle that wasn’t his own irked Sebastian more than it should have. He flexed the fingers on his shooting hand. Then he cleared his throat. The chatter stopped at once as all three of the other snipers turned towards him, expectant. Damn. It had been a while since he had given orders like this. 

“My name is Sebastian. As Moriarty should have told you, you will be reporting to me today. If we’re lucky, none of us will have to fire a shot. Our only goal is to protect Moriarty. If it is decided that an assassination must be performed then—barring my incapacitation or Moriarty’s direct order—I will be the one pulling the trigger. Opportunism won’t win you a pat on the head from me or Moriarty. Aside from that, your standing orders are to aim where I’m aiming. Laser when I use a laser, but keep them off until then. Should be simple. That all clear?” The general sounds of assent that bloomed up were good enough for Sebastian. He wasn’t a colonel anymore, after all. He could do without the extra dash of formality. “Fantastic. Let’s get a move on. We’ve got—“ He checked his phone, “—five minutes. Shit. Come on.” 

It was lucky that the group had gotten a chance to look around the building beforehand. Sebastian was able to follow them to the upper stage that overlooked the pool. He settled in the centre of the group with two minutes to spare after setting up his rifle. Jim and John were nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Jim was probably planning some dramatic entrance for whatever showdown he had orchestrated for Sherlock. Fucking drama queen. Was John conscious yet? Sebastian didn’t have a lot of experience with chloroform. 

Sebastian shouldered the rifle. It should have felt identical to the one Jim had gifted him: it was another L115A3. Nonetheless, it somehow felt foreign in his hands as he aimed it down towards the pool, scope off for now. His hands were steady. No tremors, no shaking. Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder if Jim had accounted for the timeline of his nicotine withdrawal in scheduling all of this. He wouldn’t put it past him. His musings were halted by the sounds of footfalls—not Jim’s—somewhere below. Then a door opened. And there he was, strolling out onto the tiles: the man of the hour, Sherlock Holmes.


	34. Aftershock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim has to deal with some emotional fallout after the confrontation with Sherlock at the pool.

“You performed beautifully, Sebastian. I’m very proud.” They were riding back to the flat on Davies Street together in one of Jim’s co-opted cabs. Sebastian was studying his hands. There was blood under his nails, and in the creases of his fingers. Just from his nose. It had gone rusty dark and dry. Not enough time had passed for it to start flaking. The standoff at the pool had only taken five minutes, maybe. It had felt much longer. But then, time was moving strangely even now. Sebastian could still feel a clot of blood high in one nostril. He couldn’t breathe right. His chest was tight, anyway. No shots had been fired. His withdrawal symptoms were long gone. But he was trembling. The ending had been a little anticlimactic. Jim had gotten a phone call and unceremoniously left. Sebastian still wasn’t sure what that was about. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, as predicted, Sherlock had exploited the explosive vest, and put everyone’s life in danger. Jim’s included. Jim had explicitly told him not to kill Sherlock unless he gave the order, so Sebastian had been paralyzed. Helpless. His heart was beating too fast. He was only sitting down. Even odder, Jim’s praise slid off his psyche like a bead of water off wax paper. He couldn’t hear properly as it was. The cab was full of liquid. Muffling sound. Filling up his lungs. Sebastian flexed his fingers. That was his blood on his hands. His flesh still didn’t feel like his own, even so. His fingertips were tingling. 

There was a faint mechanical whirring that took him too long to place. Then he realized that Jim had rolled down one of the cab’s windows. Chilly London air, tainted with car exhaust, washed into the vehicle. 

“Poor Tiger. Not feeling well, are you? My loyal soldier. Breathe.” Maybe Sebastian was imagining it, but there might have been some pity in his voice this time. Jim was speaking softly, anyway. Like he did sometimes when he was deep in concentration. He did his best to obey the command, to suck in some of the cold draft from the open window. His breaths were ragged. Jim’s hand settled on his back between his shoulder blades: warm and solid. “Is all of this because of me? Were you this worried for me?” Sebastian wanted to talk. He had already told Jim as much before the confrontation had begun—that he didn’t approve of the plan, and that he was afraid it would end in Jim’s death. Somewhere, beneath miles of crystalline terror and dissociation, he was livid. The heat of that rage wasn’t warming him now, though. He could not remember leaving the pool building. Sebastian was pretty sure his legs wouldn’t support his weight at the moment. Had they been able to carry him then? Jim’s hand drifted upward, resting his palm against the upper vertebrae of Sebastian’s spine, thumb rubbing the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “In... and out. Good. I’m alive and well, Sebastian. There’s no reason for all of this. It’s all a little foolish, isn’t it?”

“You’re foolish.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. It came out choked and distorted. Sebastian wheezed in a deeper breath anyway as Jim chuckled. 

“Oh, very clever comeback. I’ll be sure to write that one down. I thought everything went rather well, though, didn’t you? Aside from my embarrassing little mistake. Forgetting to put my mobile on silent. Such an amateur move… I believe I got my point across with Sherlock anyway. Breathe, remember, Tiger. This will pass. It always passes. It will all get better soon. You’re not going to vomit, are you? You’re looking a little green.”

“No. I’m okay. Wasn’t listening. To you and—“ Jim was hushing him, thumb rubbing firmer circles into the base of his skull. It was difficult to talk anyway when his mouth was paper-dry, so Sebastian relented. 

“Never mind. Don’t try to talk. You sound like death. Focus on the breathing.” Sebastian closed his eyes and propped his forearms on his thighs, bending forward slightly so he could relax his spine, dip his head, trying to focus and breathe. He heard Jim shift, and then Jim’s thigh was pressed against his own, their sides brushing, and Jim rested his chin on Sebastian’s shoulder. When he breathed in, he could smell Jim. Peppermint and sandalwood. Clean and familiar. He was warm and solid, like his hand, and Sebastian couldn’t help but lean into him a little—let Jim support some of his weight. The criminal made no comment on it. He was quiet, though Sebastian could feel his breath against his ear. He focused on that, matched it, breathed slower. The air was beginning to return to its usual viscosity. By the time the cab pulled up in front of the flat almost twenty minutes later, Sebastian could breathe properly again, though his fingers were still trembling like he’d chugged three cups of coffee. 

“I told you that could happen,” Sebastian said as Jim slid out of the cab behind him, smoothing down his suit as he strolled up to the keypad and swiped his card then punched in the code, all nonchalance. Like he hadn’t been half-holding Sebastian all the way home. His voice was gravelly, but it was stronger now at least. Jim glanced back at him, dark eyes inscrutable.

“What? Sherlock accepting the explosives gamble or the panic attack? You didn’t need to warn me about either. I knew they were both possibilities.” 

“He could have killed you then and there, Jim.”

“Could have, yes,” Jim said as he opened the door, stepping into the entryway and starting for the stairs, “We discussed this already, Tiger. But do you really think he would have fired?” Sebastian’s legs felt a bit like gelatine as he followed Jim up the stairs, jaw tight, glad he had enough breath now to argue.

“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s no way to be sure.”

“It was a calculated risk, that’s all.” 

“With your life.” 

“Again, Sebastian, that was the point. And anyway, you’ve heard my view on that multiple times now.” 

“I’m having a hard time reconciling your orders with—“ They reached the top of the stairs, and Jim turned to look at him, eyes sharp and dark as shards of volcanic glass. 

“I don’t need you to reconcile my orders with anything. I need you to obey them. That’s all. Any extra moralistic judgements you can bellyache over later. When you’re off the clock, if you could, darling. With any luck that will save you some stress.” Frustration fizzed against Sebastian’s sternum.

“You know why I can’t do that, don’t you? You’ve got to fucking know why I can’t just close my eyes when you snap your fingers. And you don’t want me to, either. Or you wouldn’t have been cosying up to me in the back of that cab, talking sweet to me and breathing in my ear.” Jim, for the first time, looked taken aback, though within the span of a second he had wiped the evidence from his face. 

“I want to keep you functional. You’re my best sniper.”

“That’s not the whole truth. You could have sent me home in another cab with a Xanax. Maybe I’m remembering this wrong—I was pretty fucked up at the time—but I think you asked me once why I was so loyal. You know why. And that’s the reason I have a hard time following your orders when you’re endangering your life. You can’t have it both ways. Not with me, anyway. You can’t have someone who isn’t controlled by fear or money or power, but who also doesn’t care if you’re wagering your life on some stupid game of ‘who’s smarter than Jim Moriarty’.” He could feel blood hot in his cheeks, emotion tightening the muscles in his tremulous hands as he stared Jim down. The corner of Jim’s mouth twitched. It was difficult to decode his mood from that alone, and his tone had returned to an unperturbed lilt.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time.” Jim turned on his heel and started down the hall for door 34. Sebastian’s mouth twisted into a grimace behind Jim’s back as he raked a hand viciously through his hair before following after. 

“Shouldn’t you be glad I’m this deeply invested in your wellbeing?” Sebastian asked as Jim unlocked the door and walked into the flat, “Seems like a cherry on top to me. You think Rodger gives a shit if you live or die, except as it pertains to his paycheque? Or any of the mercs you put on my team? They’re all for hire. But not me. I’m off the market.” The Irishman had bent down and was untying his wingtips. ‘Gucci,’ Jim’s voice supplied in his mind, unbidden, as he toed off his shoes too.

“Do you ever shut up?” Jim asked, shedding his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a kitchen chair before moving back over to the couch, lowering himself onto the cushions with a sigh. 

“If I’m given proper motivation, I’ve been known to.” Jim glanced over at him at that, lips turning up into a more definite smile. 

“How are you feeling, Tiger? Your hands are still shaking a little.”

“Pissed off, but I think I’ll make it.” Jim’s eyes went twinkling.

“Go pour me a scotch, and let’s see if we can’t change that.”


	35. Right Hand Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian and Jim have a bit of fun on the sofa, and Sebastian gets a promotion.

Sebastian got Jim a tumbler of amber scotch and settled down beside him on the sofa as he took a sip, holding the liquid on his tongue for a second before swallowing it down. Sebastian could almost taste it too, smoke and leather biting his tongue. He had to agree with Jim. It would go down nice on a night like tonight. Jim ignored him as he finished the glass, taking his time, eyes closed. He only opened his eyes and turned to look at Sebastian once he had drained the last dregs.

“Now,” Jim said, voiced honeyed in a way that made Sebastian’s muscles tighten, ready for trouble he was pretty sure wasn’t coming, “You’re angry at me, Tiger. What can I do to make it up to you? Hmm?” Jim’s hand came to rest on Sebastian’s shoulder, thumb finding knots and sore places, pressing in a way that made Sebastian almost want to draw away. “Don’t look so dour. I do want you to be happy. What could I do to turn this night around for you?” Sebastian was sure he was thickening his accent on purpose, letting the crispness slip out of his diction, eyes heavy-lidded, lips just barely smiling. Like Jim hoped he could seduce him just that easily. Not today.

“Promise to never do anything like that again, and I’ll consider it a decent night,” Sebastian said, forcing himself to turn his head so he didn’t have to see Jim’s scotch-wet pout.

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t promise that. You understand, don’t you? You must have, oh, keyed a teacher’s car or punched someone and then swore up and down to yourself that it was a mistake you wouldn’t make again. But you can’t deny your impulses, Tiger. Not all of them, anyway. I’m not interested in going over this anymore. I don’t have to offer a consolation prize, you know. I think you would be foolish not to accept it.” Though accepting it would mean coming off his soapbox and tacitly accepting Jim’s arguments. Not that he could have won that fight anyway. Fuck it all. Sebastian looked back at Jim, a muscle in his jaw working as though his body was still trying to resist his will’s weakness. 

“How about a kiss, then?” He asked, and Jim’s face went bright as sin. ‘Ding ding ding! Congratulations to tonight’s winner.’ He felt the muscle in his jaw contract again as he tried to blot out the mental commentary. 

“Only a kiss?” Jim asked, eyebrows high over his grin, “I gave you a panic attack, Tiger. You have more leverage than that.” So Jim wanted more than a kiss. He should have known as much. Something about the combination of excitement and alcohol seemed to really do it for Jim. Less of a treat for Sebastian’s benefit, then, more Jim sating his own appetite under the guise of altruism. No surprises there. At least Jim was eager.

“Let’s start off with a kiss,” Sebastian said, reaching out to lay his fingers along Jim’s cheekbone, index finger touching the delicate top of Jim’s ear. With a bit of effort he could grab and tear the skin and cartilage; disfigure Jim and leave him bloodied. Would he scream in pain? He would have to, wouldn’t he? But Sebastian couldn’t envision it. He could only imagine the blood, the initial surprise flooding over Jim’s face, before the pain registered—damn it. Sebastian’s head twitched to the side in an involuntary flinch as he shooed the thought away. Jim didn’t miss it. Kittenish, he turned his face into Sebastian’s hand, pressing a kiss to its centre. 

“Don’t look at me like that, darling,” He said, voice muffled by Sebastian’s palm, his own hand pressing forward from where it had been on Sebastian’s shoulder, arm moving instead to drape around his neck. Then Jim nudged Sebastian’s hand aside and climbed onto his lap. 

Sebastian could never get himself to remember how warm Jim was, despite first-hand experience. He wasn’t some cold blooded snake that had robbed Prada blind. Sebastian could feel the heat from the back of Jim’s thighs; could feel his muscles tensing under the Westwood suit trousers as he situated himself, and the softness of his stomach through his shirt as he leaned in. More important, Sebastian could feel Jim’s visceral _wanting_ in the way he slid his fingers under Sebastian’s shirt to touch bare skin—ignoring the lingering clammy sweat— or the humid press of Jim’s lips against his neck as he kissed up the track of his jugular. No nails, no teeth. Jim was still being gentle with him. And wasn’t that charming? The passion Jim had evoked from him in the cab rose in his chest, and with a sudden, fierce surge of protectiveness, Sebastian wrapped an arm tight around Jim’s waist and held him close, drawing him into a kiss. And Jim was kissing him back, melting into it, wet and warm, making little sounds low in his throat that were driving Sebastian crazy. Some part of it felt like a veneer designed to make Sebastian forget he was supposed to be angry with Jim. Maybe it was. But Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to care in the least. Not when Jim’s tongue lapped at his lower lip, or his hips rocked against Sebastian’s. 

“Christ,” Jim breathed as Sebastian scraped his teeth against Jim’s neck, feeling stubble drag at his lips, smelling a hateful, lingering trace of chlorine over Jim’s usual hair product, tasting salt. Jim’s fingers dug hard into Sebastian’s side, fingernails pressing into the thin flesh over his ribs. Jim’s sharp edges were making themselves known again. Of course he wouldn’t be able to play nice for long. Jim dragged his nails up, leaving stripes of angry skin behind as he rucked Sebastian’s shirt up a few inches. Sebastian bit at the tender skin below Jim’s ear in retaliation. Jim growled—a sound that went straight to Sebastian’s dick—and fit their hips together, grinding against Sebastian’s groin and belly. Utterly filthy, and all the better because Jim still looked every inch the criminal mastermind he was. He was still wearing his stupid, designer skull tie with its garnet studded tie bar, his hair was still slicked back and flawless. And yet Jim was rubbing against him like he couldn’t help himself, sallow cheeks flushed, and Sebastian found he couldn’t help himself either. 

“Jim. Are we doing this?” All signs pointed to yes, but considering the twist Jim had handed him last time, Sebastian couldn’t assume anything. Jim didn’t pause, still doing that lovely, obscene roll of his hips that rubbed the length of his cock against Sebastian’s. Even through the cloth, it was making Sebastian’s skin prickle with a tense, eager heat.

“What do you think, Tiger?” Jim said, catching his mouth again in a quick, hard kiss. 

“Fucking fantastic,” Sebastian said once they had pulled apart, mind grasping at fleeting bits of logic, “Condom? Lube?” Jim’s eyes gleamed. Going up onto his knees—Sebastian stifled a groan at the loss of contact—he drew two packets out of his back pocket. Sebastian stared, bewildered. “Do you always…?” 

“Of course not,” Jim said, “But games have a tendency to get me all worked up. The adrenaline rush. The anticipa---“

“Shut up. Don’t remind me,” Sebastian said, snatching the condom and packet of lube from Jim’s fingers and dropping them onto the couch beside them, “What do you want?”

“I’m going to ride you, Tiger,” Jim purred, the dark sweetness in his voice doing nearly as much to Sebastian’s dick as the sight of Jim’s hands going to undo his belt, tossing it in the general direction of his suit jacket, “And you’re going to sit there and look handsome.” No complaints there.

Jim stood to shimmy out of his trousers, and Sebastian shucked off his own trousers and pants, the air of the room soothing against his overheated skin. His hand curled lazily around his cock, not stroking, just holding, though the lack of friction felt grating. Still, Sebastian took the time to openly leer at Jim’s arse when he turned to fold the trousers and set them down on the coffee table. Which gave him an eyeful of Jim’s pants. Yet another pair of lurid boxer briefs: these ones black and teal, patterned like some piece of computer hardware. 

“Where the hell do you buy your underwear?” 

“Anywhere that doesn’t sell them in plastic-sealed sets.” 

Jim tossed aside the pants as well, but didn’t remove his shirt. As much as Sebastian wanted to run his hands over the muscles in Jim’s shoulders and arms, he was glad that Jim hadn’t seen fit to remove it. All the better to try again to reconcile the different aspects of Jim’s personality into something that stayed human, even when his mind was whirring at full tilt. Jim returned to his place on Sebastian’s lap, skin brushing skin, eyes sparkling with devilish glee beneath the dark fringe of his eyelashes. Sebastian’s free hand found its way to Jim’s hip, thumb rubbing the bone, fingers pressing into the plush flesh of his arse, shuddering when Jim grabbed the base of his erection and rolled on the condom. 

It was different, this time. For starters, Jim wasn’t the only one getting any degree of pleasure. Pressing into Jim, feeling Jim— _Jim_ —taking him deep and easy, with a delicious heat that made it hard for Sebastian to restrain himself; hearing the low, animal groan rise from his throat like he had just slid into a hot bath after a long day, his chest swelling and falling with a great breath; feeling him shiver in the same way Sebastian had just a minute ago when Jim rolled his hips for the first time, rocking himself on Sebastian’s cock: the satisfaction was consuming. More than that, though. Jim didn’t snap or complain. He buried his face in Sebastian’s neck, kissing and licking, worrying the sensitive skin with his teeth in a way that was just the right amount of painful. Jim was still setting the pace, but this time, Sebastian could slip his hands under the back of Jim’s shirt to feel sweat dewing on his skin, or squeeze Jim’s arse to make him jolt half an inch. Twice. That did get a complaint.

“Could you stop that, Moran? That’s very disarming.” Sebastian laughed, a bit breathless, and nipped at his earlobe.

“Sorry, kitten.” 

Moreover, when Jim came first, rutting against Sebastian’s belly, he didn’t just push away immediately to flop onto the sofa. He kept rocking, shuddering with every downward thrust until Sebastian came too. They stayed there, sweaty, shirts plastered together, for a couple minutes. Jim’s cheek was sticky and feverish against Sebastian’s neck, his breath too close for physical comfort, but through their shirts, Sebastian could feel Jim’s heart thudding, slowing as his own did. He was pretty sure his heart rate was back to its resting average by the time Jim groaned and pulled away, knees wobbling just a little as he got to his feet and stretched. Sebastian smirked, and tossed the condom into the bin, ignoring the patch of wetness against his stomach for now. It didn’t matter much. 

“You doing alright there, Jim? You’ve got fawn legs.” Jim’s mouth tugged into a dangerous smile.

“Never better. Try not to look so self-satisfied. It doesn’t suit you.” Sebastian laughed, and sprawled sideways onto the couch, bare legs propped up on the arm. Jim quirked a brow. “And you?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“That’s what I thought. No hard feelings, then? My right hand man is satisfied?” Sebastian fixed Jim with a sharp look, which Jim met and held. Why this? And why now? Because of his performance at the pool? Because Jim knew how deeply he cared? Because he was a decent fuck? The pieces just weren’t fitting together. There was no joke in Jim’s face though, only that cutting sort of expectant curiosity he wore sometimes. “Well, Tiger?”

“Yeah. I guess I am.” Jim smiled like he had just won fifty quid at a fruit machine. And there was his hit of heroin.


	36. Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian and Jim get cozy in bed, then have a chat about Irene Adler.

Jim disappeared down the hall towards his bedroom. To shower, Sebastian assumed, and between the sweat and the cum, it seemed like a decent idea. Sebastian showered too, stripping out of his rank clothing and scouring his skin clean. Then he settled into bed. It was peaceful in the dark—the sounds of the city muted—and after his time with Jim, Sebastian found it easier than he might have to drift off. He was half asleep already when the door opened with a whisper. Cracking an eye, Sebastian recognized Jim’s faint silhouette and frowned. It wasn’t as though he could expect any more good news. He wasn’t that lucky. 

“Is something wrong?”

“Shush,” Jim said as he made his way around the side of the bed and climbed up behind Sebastian, wriggling under the covers. As commanded, Sebastian kept his mouth shut. The significance wasn’t lost on him, though. This wasn’t Jim’s casual willingness to allow Sebastian to stay in bed with him post-orgasm, or his way of soothing Sebastian when he was dazed and panicked. Jim was deliberately seeking him out for his own sake: against all odds, he wanted to cuddle. It was laughable, but Sebastian managed to bite his tongue. Jim probably wouldn’t appreciate him giggling. Jim nested himself against Sebastian’s back, one arm curled under Sebastian’s so his hand could press flat against his chest, and his nose brushed the nape of Sebastian’s neck, each exhalation ticklish. The weight was comfortable and even with Jim’s breath huffing against the back of his neck, Sebastian was still soothed. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep once Jim dozed off behind him. No phantom pain or heat bothered him that night. No disjointed nightmares he couldn’t quite remember. 

When Sebastian woke up the next morning, Jim was still there, spooning him, fast asleep. Moving slowly, so as not to disturb him, Sebastian checked the time on his phone. 9:13. Jim would probably be angry he had slept so late, but he’d also probably be angry if Sebastian took it upon himself to wake him up. He needed more rest, anyway. Jim never kept a decent schedule. It ached, somehow, to pull away from Jim, lifting his arm from where it still draped against his chest and easing Jim onto his back. Sebastian missed his warmth as soon as it was gone. Jim, with his eyes closed and his face slack, looked five years younger. Drool was collecting in the corner of his mouth. Sebastian grinned, and then took his clothes out into the living room to change.

Incidentally, Jim wasn’t upset about the time. He meandered into the kitchen barefooted and bare-chested shortly before 10:00, helped himself to the coffee Sebastian had brewed earlier, and stood before the balcony, staring out at the low, grey clouds, humming snatches of some melody Sebastian didn’t recognize under his breath. Sebastian watched him, taking sips from his own mug of coffee and enjoying the peace. It didn’t drag out for too long, though. Curiosity forced him to break the silence. 

“Now that I’m your right hand man, do I get to know what that phone call was? The one that interrupted your standoff last night?” Jim glanced over his shoulder at him. Sebastian held his gaze for a few seconds before Jim relented. 

“Just a friend with something very interesting to tell me. You would like her, Tiger. But she would eat you up.”

“Friend?” Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow. A dubious idea to begin with. Beyond that, the phone call—at least Jim’s end of it—had consisted mostly of threats. 

“A colleague of mine,” Jim amended, “She’s in a related line of work. Information. Which I sometimes need. But having that information makes her a target. She needs connections and money to protect herself, which I have. So, when she has something she thinks I might be interested in purchasing…” 

“She brings it to you to see if you fancy a trade,” Sebastian supplied. Jim nodded.

“She’s very good at what she does, and so she’s a very wealthy woman. We have a symbiotic relationship. But I’m hardly her only customer.” 

“Are you her rudest customer?” Jim snickered. 

“Maybe. Most people don’t have the luxury of being rude to Irene Adler without consequence. But I’m one of her most dangerous customers, and she doesn’t have any blackmail material on me, so I can afford to be impolite. And she did have terrible timing last night, Sebby. I was very tense, and she promised me something that I could barely believe she got her clever fingers on. The idea of her lying to me made me cross, and between that and the interruption, I can hardly be blamed for snapping.”

“Or threatening to turn her into leather goods?” Jim shrugged. 

“It would never have come to that.” 

“So what did she say she had?”

“Some information about an interesting little scheme being pulled by the government. Counterterrorism methods. A code. Which I think I’m going to have her give to our good friend Sherly to crack. After I take a peek at it first, of course,” He wet his lips and smiled, “If you keep reading John’s blog, it might crop up. Though considering the sensitive nature of the material, he may not include it even after the whole thing has been blown wide open.” And there Jim went, raising more questions in Sebastian’s mind than he answered. Which was just about par for the course. Sebastian nodded and took another swig of coffee, considering for a moment. 

“So, do I get to meet this Irene Adler?” It was interesting to imagine someone that Jim considered a collaborator of sorts, on the wrong side of the playing field to be matched against him as an opponent. Jim laughed outright, going to deposit his empty cup in the sink, fingers brushing Sebastian’s bicep as he passed.

“Absolutely not, Tiger. Like I said, she doesn’t have any blackmail material on me. I don’t want her winning some off of you,” Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but Jim beat him to it, “I’m not suggesting you’re not loyal, or that you wouldn’t try to be careful But she would, darling. It’s what she does. And you’re so easy. Just clever enough to be dangerous, so eager to please, and with a secondary brain in your cock. She would devour you. And by the time you realized you had erred and came running to daddy for help, it would be too late. Even if I were there with you, you might let something slip, just because you couldn’t help yourself. She’s your type to a T.” Snagging an apple from the bowl on the counter, Jim started back down the hall towards his bedroom. Sebastian watched him go, feeling the itch of unsatisfied interest and the stab of hurt pride in his guts. Jim paused before the door to the master bedroom, though, and looked back, “And maybe, Bastian, just maybe, I might feel jealous watching you letch on her.” Sebastian’s stomach squeezed and he beamed. 

Even knowing that Jim was almost certainly still watching his online activity, Sebastian couldn’t resist the impulse to look up Irene. She had a website, as it turned out, and it only took a minute or two to determine that Jim had made the right call. He was no match for Irene. Best to cut a wide swatch around her and leave her for Jim to tangle with. Sebastian’s phone buzzed on the bed beside him. Text alert from Ginger. It was a report from an arms deal that had happened last night. Damn, Jim worked fast. Sebastian tapped out a quick reply—message received--and then got up to take stock of the fridge and neaten up the kitchen. He doubted Jim would see new duties as an excuse to shirk the old ones.


	37. The Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian is given a buisiness card.

For London it was a scorcher, and even if Sebastian had enough experience with heat that he should have been able to scoff at a temperature of 32°C, he still felt sticky in his long trousers. When he had left the flat that morning and stepped into the junglesque haze of the city in July, Jim had been leaning out over the balcony railing with a glass of lemonade, wearing a pale blue linen suit and looking ten degrees cooler than he had any right to. When he had asked if he could put on his training gear for the day in lieu of his usual sturdy work clothes, Jim had only laughed. 

“And admit that the weather’s beaten you? I thought you toured in Afghanistan. I thought you summered in India as a child now and then. Don’t tell me it’s too hot for you. I don’t believe you.” And that had been the end of that discussion. All well and good for Jim to say, who had no footwork to do, and far fewer people to manage now that Sebastian was watching Europe and Southern Asia. Just his own pet projects to worry about, plus the consulting. All cool work. Sebastian was steaming. 

Sebastian had set an explosive charge to blow beneath a particular government official’s car, and that was all he knew about that job. No name or reason, just that they were a public servant, and apparently their sudden, violent death would throw half of parliament into delectable mayhem of some sort or another. Jim hadn’t specified. Sebastian hadn’t cared enough to ask. The trip to the golf course in East London brought him within spitting distance of his old life in Newham, though. That, more than the block of Semtex ticking away under some poor bugger’s car, piqued Sebastian’s curiosity. It had been less than a year and the streets were virtually unchanged, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Still, it would be nearly as easy to take the familiar tube lines back into the heart of the city as it would be to summon another of Jim’s cabs. He doubted Weasel was still alive to startle, but maybe Tully—Stephen—would have some choice reaction. Anyway, in his memory the place felt like a walk-in freezer, which was appealing in this weather. Maybe it wasn’t so cold in July, but a man could hope. Chasing an impulse, that was all. 

The alley door was still there, still unlocked, across from the pawnshop where Jim had recognized him for the first time in decades. Sebastian glanced at the security camera, but for now it didn’t turn to wink at him. Jim was probably still lounging on the balcony, or else working, or maybe sneaking a cold shower while Sebastian was gone, so he could pretend he wasn’t uncomfortable by the time Sebastian got back. 

‘I don’t need to watch you anymore, do I, Tiger? I’m right here, in your head.’

Sebastian shook himself and pushed through the door and was met with the same stale scent of mouldering plaster, body odour, and urine. The familiarity was almost funny now, considering his new standard of living. Meatbag wasn’t there and Weasel was long gone, but Ms. Tabby was unmoved from her corner. Sebastian was almost surprised she wasn’t collecting dust. The others had been replaced with new models: an old man with a grizzled grey beard, a waifish woman with lank hair and great wet eyes, and a boy who couldn’t be older than fifteen, though his jaw was set in a hard line. Their eyes turned towards him. Stephen glanced up from a copy of some skin mag, and then jolted. 

“Soldier boy!” Sebastian grinned. Stephen looked like he had seen a ghost. That was about the reaction he had been hoping for. “Someone’s been asking around about a man by your description.” That, on the other hand… Sebastian’s stomach dropped. 

“Oh yeah? You got a name on this person?”

“The person who came in here? No. They were just some nobody.” 

“The person who sent them. Their boss or whoever’s at the top of the chain.”

“Oh, yeah. Sir Augustus Moran. Said he was looking for his son, Sebastian. Mid-thirties, ex-military, tall, facial scars. That you, Soldier Boy?” Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The blankness in his eyes must have been as good as a confirmation, because Stephen was already reaching into the drawer where he stashed his earnings and pulling out a business card “They came in a few months ago, if I’m remembering right. Left me a number for you to call.” He handed it over, and Sebastian took it, turning it over in his fingers. Thick, creamy cardstock. Matte black letters. Sure enough, Sir Augustus Moran, followed by two numbers: one Sebastian didn’t recognize—his father’s mobile number—and the other he did, with the same uncanny familiarity that he’d felt smelling Tully’s again after all those months, but magnified a hundredfold. It was the number to Shurridge Manor. The same number he’d memorized as a child and dreaded having to call at school. It had been over a decade since he’d called, but there it was, still the same, still looming over him with a cold weight. Sebastian wet his lips, then finally pocketed the card.

“Thanks, Tul—Stephen.” 

“Don’t mention it, Soldier Boy.”

“Still calling me that? Not much of a soldier anymore, am I?” Stephen shrugged. 

“One military’s the same as any other. I know a uniform when I see one. But your business is your own. So long as you don’t bring any trouble my way, you’re still just Soldier Boy to me. You going to buy anything?” He didn’t look hopeful. 

“Nah,” Even if Sebastian had been allowed to drink, nothing about this place appealed to him anymore. He had no appetite for it, anyway. He pushed away from the counter. Stephen’s gaze had already fallen back to his magazine, “Take it easy.” Stephen grunted in response, and Sebastian started for the door. 

Sebastian took the underground back to SoHo as planned, unable to keep his fingers off the card in his pocket. All he could think was that his father was terminally ill and seeking to make amends, though dying and sudden bursts of regret both seemed out of character for Sir Moran. He was in his seventies now by Sebastian’s estimation, but for ages Sebastian had felt certain his father would outlive him, if only to deny him his inheritance—assuming he hadn’t been written out of the will already in favour of some obscure cousin or something. If he wasn’t looking for some last-minute atonement, or God forbid to make amends, then what? He shouldn’t been interested. Sebastian had dissected his father from his life as soon as he had left Shurridge Manor for the last time to go to university, and done so flamboyantly. Shattered china and broken windows. Slashed tires and a petrol scorched lawn. Salt in the gardens, sugar in the fuel tank of his father’s Rolls-Royce. There had been no turning back after that; not if he valued his pride, anyway. Nothing good could come of talking to his father now—especially not when Jim was going to be paying him and presumably housing him for the rest of his life. But Sebastian was interested anyway. Always a glutton for pain. 

If he just texted the mobile number, nothing too dramatic could come from it. Just to see what his old dad wanted. Maybe he had already died in the few months when Stephen had been holding onto the card. Sebastian could look that up. It would be easy to find an obituary, if there was one to find. Then again, he could always just ask. Easy peasy. Sebastian lingered just outside the entrance of the tube station, phone in one hand, card in the other, chewing the inside of his cheek as he considered. Best to do it out here. Jim always had an eerie sense for when Sebastian was doing something he didn’t approve of in the flat. Sebastian couldn’t rule out hidden security cameras, though he’d looked and never found any. And while Sebastian couldn’t think of anything too terrible about texting his father, something was still pricking at the back of his mind. Instinct, maybe. Old wariness. But it wasn’t as though Sir Moran could lay a finger on him now without risking a broken wrist and a shattered clavicle. 

‘Hey Da. Aren’t you dead yet? –SM’


	38. The Chat (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian has two chats with two people.

‘I expected to hear from you after you got out of prison. –AM’

‘I didn’t need any help from you. –SM’

‘The flat and the places you were patronising suggest otherwise. –AM’

‘I helped myself. –SM’

‘I suppose you are old enough to have come into your own. –AM’

And that had been their first exchange. People didn’t change. Or at least, no one Sebastian knew ever had. Which was what made the whole idea of his father reaching out to him both suspicious and alluring, like a will-o'-the-wisp enticing him into treacherous waters. Not that there was anything openly illicit or dangerous about the messages. They were innocuous, really. And maybe they didn’t represent a change in personality at all, just a change in situations. Sebastian wasn’t some helpless, troublesome kid anymore. All the same, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop—for his father to make some great demand or throw some insult, or try to blackmail him. But the weeks passed, and it didn’t.

‘The estate is falling to wrack and ruin. Impossible to find decent help these days, and I have better things to worry about. –AM’

‘Oh well. –SM’

‘How did the army end up treating you? Aside from the court martial, of course. –AM’

‘Just fine. –SM’

‘What are you doing with yourself these days, Sebastian? –AM’

‘This and that. –SM’

‘You’re a difficult person to find. Are you still in London? –AM’

‘Sometimes. –SM’

‘You don’t want to help manage Shurridge? Is that what your attitude means? –AM’

‘Sounds boring. –SM’

‘It’s going to be yours at some point. I thought you would be more interested in its fate. –AM’

That had given Sebastian some pause. As Jim’s second in command, he wasn’t hungry for his inheritance, and the thought of living anywhere but Jim’s side made him anxious in a way he couldn’t fixate on for too long without getting either sappy or out of sorts. But Shurridge Manor had a certain magnetism. It was one of the spectres of his childhood, and he had a suspicion Jim, despite the bamboo and stainless steel of his flat, would appreciate the austere elegance of the Elizabethan estate. Jim hadn’t come from money. Sebastian’s blue blood—his family’s land and ties to old nobility—was one of the few things he had a leg up on Jim in. 

‘Thought I’d been disinherited. –SM’

‘I bought a new Rolls-Royce. –AM’

‘That so? –SM’

‘You were young, regardless. A mistake of youth. It’s forgiven. –AM’

‘I’m not sorry. –SM’ 

‘I see. –AM’ 

‘Are you? –SM’

‘Am I what? Sorry? –AM’

‘Yes. –SM’

‘Sorry for what? –AM’

Sebastian’s knuckles paled as he tightened his grip on his mobile, fury boiling over in his stomach hot and white. As though the bastard didn’t know. It took every fibre of self-restraint in Sebastian’s body to keep from hurling the phone into the canvas print hanging on the wall. But Jim, though he had given no indication that he knew Sebastian was chatting with his father again, would certainly get suspicious if he let himself go off like that. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to breathe.

‘For all the shit you put me through when I was a kid. –SM’ 

Sebastian just barely resisted the urge to peg an insult on at the end, though once he had sent the text, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just gone ahead with it. 

‘Saying sorry wouldn’t change anything. Do you want to help manage Shurridge or not? –AM’

That sounded very much like a no. In some ways he was right. It wouldn’t change anything Sebastian had always thought that his father wasn’t even capable of regret. Just a run-of-the-mill, hot-headed, cold-blooded psychopath. 

‘Go fuck yourself. –SM’ 

‘Let me know if you change your mind. Have a nice evening, Sebastian. –AM’ 

Sebastian grimaced as he turned off his phone’s display and slid it into his pocket. He had to go on a run or something, just to clear away the static. Sebastian changed into his training kit and went into the kitchen, but Jim was there, leaning against the counter with a bowl of leftover dal tadka. 

“Going to the gym, Sebastian? It’s not your usual time.” Sebastian shrugged, not trusting himself to say anything other than the truth.

“Feel like I need it.” Jim looked him up and down with a slowness that was less flattering than it was unnerving. 

“You haven’t put on any weight.”

“There are other reasons to go to the gym.” 

“If you say so. I was curious. What do you make of the plane crash?”

“There was a plane crash?” 

“Still not watching the news, Sebby?” Sebastian shrugged again. 

“You tell me about anything interesting that happens except for rugby. Why should I? Waste of time, mostly boring.”

“And not reading John’s blog?” So, this involved Sherlock. He had been hoping not to have to think of that curly-haired ponce again. Sebastian pulled a face, but Jim continued on, not discouraged, “There was a plane crash a couple days ago outside Dusseldorf. All passengers dead. Except for one.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. That one was found dead but unscathed in a car boot in south east England. Flight accoutrements on his person. Passport stamped in Berlin. Checked in on the plane. I know what happened, of course, though I’m keeping mum about it for any number of reasons. My dear detective is flummoxed. But he’s like me. He has a tendency to make things cleverer than they are. Always eager for complexity. So I thought you might be interested in cracking it.” That was a roundabout way to shoot an insult. 

“Since I’m simpler.”

“Well you are, Tiger. But I think you might have a better shot than him at unravelling it at this stage. Tell me what you know.” Really, it only took a moment of thought.

“He wasn’t on the plane.” Jim’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh? But aren’t you forgetting, Tiger? His passport was stamped. He was checked into the flight.”

“Doesn’t matter. His body’s pristine in England. What’s the alternative? He survived the crash unscathed, snuck back to the UK, got kidnapped and died in the boot of a car? That’s horseshit. I don’t know what the passport and the flight check in are about, but they’re wrong. Forged or something. Hell knows why.” Jim took another bite of dal and gestured with his spoon for Sebastian to continue. “What? You want me to tell you why some corpse has a stamped passport and is checked in on a downed plane?” Shit. He had hoped he had done enough to impress, but at least Jim’s eyes were glittering in a way that was making Sebastian forget all about Sir Moran. “Well, someone fixed it, obviously. That doesn’t happen by mistake. No signs of foul play on the body?” Jim swallowed and smiled. 

“None whatsoever. Not a scratch.”

“Autopsy says?”

“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

“Not murdered, then. Someone grabbed a body out of a morgue, stuck a passport on him, and signed him into a flight that then crashed. Why the hell would someone do that?” 

“An important question, Sebby. The final question. But not the most useful one at this juncture. Pick another.” Sebastian sagged against the kitchen counter beside Jim, who dropped his empty bowl into the sink then turned to watch him with hawkish intensity. 

“How could someone do that?” 

“Getting warmer,” Jim said, voice going sing-song. Sebastian chewed the inside of his cheek. Not why. Not how, exactly. But something related. 

“Who. Who could stamp a passport in a way that the deductive machine John’s pining after couldn’t determine was a fake, and sign a corpse into a flight that they knew was going to crash? Because they must have known. They wanted it to look like he had died on that airplane even though he didn’t, but someone fucked up.” Jim beamed at him. Sebastian’s stomach somersaulted. 

“Very good. Can you answer the question?” Sebastian furrowed his brow. Only a couple possibilities arose.

“You?”

“Now, why would I do a thing like that, Sebastian?” 

“No clue.”

“Neither do I. It wasn’t me.”

“Okay. MI6?”

“Why would MI6 do something like that?” Sebastian ran his tongue over his teeth, plodding through the facts again. Jim worked at a manic pace, his brain always a dozen steps in front of Sebastian’s, but Jim seemed in no rush to get him to answer this very second. Sebastian could think through the facts as he liked. The man had been dead before the plane had taken off of unrelated causes that were not murder. His passport had been stamped and he had been checked into a flight by someone who knew the flight would never reach its destination, and yet made no effort to stop it flying. Clearly the body was supposed to be on the plane when it flew, not in a boot, but a mistake had been made and the body had never been loaded. The goal had been to make someone think that the man had died on the plane. But why? After a solid three minutes of silence, Sebastian shook his head. 

“No idea.” Jim sighed and pushed away from the counter, shoulders hanging a little lower, eyes no longer glittering. 

“Well, keep thinking about it, Sebby. No cheating. Sherly may solve it yet, so keep avoiding Watson’s blog.” 

“Yeah. Alright, I will.” Sebastian meandered back into his bedroom and flopped onto his bed, brain feeling rather overheated, trouble with his father forgotten. He didn’t go to the gym that night.


	39. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets taken to a lot of unnecessary client meetings.

Sebastian had less time to ponder over the plane mystery than he might have liked. Some semblance of promptness would probably have been preferable when it came to impressing Jim, but as it turned out, Jim didn’t give him much of an option. The network was as busy as ever, and beyond that, Jim was making use of him as a bodyguard more and more often. Considering how infrequently Jim used to have Sebastian accompany him to meetings, it was difficult to fight the feeling that he was being used more as arm-candy than security. He’d opened his closet to dress one morning to find two new suits—one charcoal the other a deep burgundy that he couldn’t ever imagine himself actually wearing—a pair of glossy merlot oxfords, and a shoe polishing kit. Sebastian hated to disappoint Jim, but the degree to which he was uninterested in figuring out why there was a sponge, a cloth, and two different sorts of brushes in the kit was just slightly greater than his desire to prove how good at polishing shoes he was. 

“Not wearing any of the presents I bought you?” Jim asked when Sebastian came into the kitchen that morning to brew coffee, glancing up from his phone, “I wanted to see. I think my measurements were accurate, but they might still need tailoring.” Sebastian wasn’t about to ask how it was Jim had managed to get his measurements without his knowledge.

“I don’t have anywhere to wear a suit to.”

“Oh, no? I suppose I didn’t tell you. You’re taking me to Dartford today. Meeting.” 

“Right. Okay.”

“I’m wearing black. You should wear the burgundy one.” Sebastian hadn’t argued. 

Jim didn’t need to go to any of these meetings. That much was clear. Most of them could have been conducted through a secure messaging system. That was how Jim had been doing most of his meetings before this, Sebastian was pretty sure. And even if his counterparts demanded a face-to-face, he could have sent some sort of an emissary posing as him. Sebastian could have gone on his own with a miniature Bluetooth tucked in his ear canal, letting Jim use him as a living puppet. But Jim had never even voiced the idea. Instead they went together, Jim varyingly haughty or jaded or frisky, Sebastian dressed in one of those two too-stuffy but perfectly tailored suits, existing in the weird space between boredom and anxiety. The GLOCK in the inside pocket of his jacket was less of a comfort and more a reminder of just how badly things could go: a constant weight on his chest that didn’t bring with it the same aura of power and invulnerability as his rifle did when it was strapped to his back. He hated it. But Jim either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because as the weeks ticked by, the number of meetings Jim had him attend increased, if anything. And Jim barely seemed to constrain the number of people attending the meetings either. 

“Four bodyguards, Jim,” Sebastian said as they took the stairs down from a private rooftop garden, Jim’s eyes glued to his mobile, “Four. All armed. And that blond one had three inches and two stone of muscle on me. Where the hell did she even find a monster like that?” Jim glanced up at him just long enough to make eye contact and search his face before turning back to his phone. 

“The other three were your size or smaller, Tiger. And besides, there’s no need to fuss over someone being bigger than you. Size and raw power are important, Sebastian, don’t get me wrong. I’ll be the first to admit that. But you’re well trained and they were mostly the basic models. Anyway, guns are the great equalizer. You could have taken them easily. I felt perfectly safe.” As though Jim’s sense of security was well calibrated. 

“The brunette was ex-KGB.”

“An active FSB officer, actually. But good eye, Tiger. Her loyalties don’t lie with her presumed employer. I was probably her target, but she wouldn’t want me dead. Just keeping an eye on me, I’m sure. I’m more useful to Russia than I am bothersome. I have lots of fans from all over the world.” Jim smiled his slow, bitter chocolate smile, looking up at Sebastian from under his dark lashes. It was a good stab at seduction, but he wasn’t in the mood. 

“Three guns against one still sounds pretty grim.” 

“Four.”

“What?”

“Our client was armed too. Kahr P380 in her clutch.” Sebastian’s heart sank into his stomach. 

“Jim—“

“I thought you had spotted it. You moved when she reached for it to get that memory card.”

“Habit, I guess.”

“Instinct. Don’t look so dark, Tiger. If I didn’t think you were capable, I would have had someone else do it.” 

“Right. Sure. Can’t you just tell them to bring one guard? Or better yet, to come alone?” Jim looked honestly mystified.

“And admit weakness? I don’t think so, darling. They’re afraid of me, don’t you see? That’s why they bring so many guards. If I demand they stop bringing them, they’ll question the logic of their fear.” Sebastian had no counterargument, so he had to resign himself to settling into the back seat of the cab beside Jim and trying to soothe the dull buzzing in his head. Termites were nesting in the diploe of his skull, ferreted away in every nook and cranny, gnawing until everything felt at once too sharp and too staticky. Jim’s fingers fussing with his suit collar only managed to quiet his mind for a few moments. No good could come of this. He could feel it. 

A few times, in the beginning, he had tried to decode the reasons why Jim asked for specific pieces of information but not others, or guessed at who the clients were in their day-to-day lives. Sebastian had given that up pretty quickly, though. He couldn’t stay afloat in the conversation without asking for clarification, or at least having a little more time to parse what was being said and really think through it. More important, Sebastian couldn’t risk letting his attention slide off of the client and their entourage even for a moment. He knew from experience that a handgun could be drawn and empty six bullets into someone’s chest and face in less than three seconds, and Jim—stupid as Sebastian thought it was—expected him to defend him against that. One second and change at most to draw from a coat pocket, a few milliseconds to aim, another second to get off half a dozen bullets. Barely enough time to do anything. Not to draw his own gun and return fire, not to place himself in front of Jim, not to flip the table, or vault over it to put a gun to the client’s head. Just enough time, maybe, to drag Jim to the floor. Not enough time to think or breathe. Just no time. That was the fatal problem.

It happened in early September. 

They were in a conference room that was too large for the size of the meeting on the top floor of a swanky office building. Floor to ceiling windows, minimalistic white rolling chairs, a built in refrigerator filled with designer bottled water. The full Monty. Jim was seated at the side of the table, across from his client and the client’s two flanking bodyguards, leaving Sebastian standing at Jim’s shoulder. The client was a paunchy, balding man fast exiting middle age, and spinning a fancy square bottle of water on one of its corners; the bodyguards looked too ill-at-ease to have done this sort of thing often. Sebastian doubted they were even on the illegitimate side of the market. No comfort there. People were always more eager to shoot when they thought they were doing the world a favour, and quicker to draw when they were nervous. Bad news. There was ozone in the air. But Jim couldn’t smell it. He seemed unconcerned. In a good mood, even. 

“Do you know the brand of his lab coat?” Jim asked, his eyes bright and focused.

“Er, no, I don’t. Sorry. I could… find out?”

“Not important. Who has access to his house? Maid? Partner? Children?”

“He has a monthly cleaning service. I’m not sure when. And one adult child. Doesn’t talk much about them visiting.” Jim glanced down, studying his cuticles. That was when it happened. 

There was a loud, percussive noise followed by a flurry of movement from the client, and Sebastian’s heart jolted. This. This is what he had been expecting. Priming himself for. Fearing. Less than three seconds. The client was on the ground. No time to think. No time to breathe. Sebastian grabbed the back of Jim’s chair and pulled it down as he fell to the ground himself. Jim’s head hit the floor with a thud and a yelp of pain and surprise that Sebastian had never heard from Jim before. Heard an exclamation from one of the bodyguards. His handgun was in his hand. He saw the client cowering beneath the table, clutching his bottle of water. No threat. But the bodyguards were on their feet. Two shots destroyed a kneecap each. They were screaming. The metallic tang of fresh blood crawled into his nose and stayed there. The bodyguards had slumped to the floor—grabbing at their thighs, sprawled out on their sides. The client had clapped his hands over his head. Like that would stop a bullet. But he shouldn’t. Not without—

“Might as well finish it.” Jim’s voice was calm and cold beside him. Sebastian obeyed. Two bullets in every head. The screaming stopped. Blood, death and silence reigned. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t move. Why was the room so small? Why was the room so fucking small? His stomach was roiling. Very close to him, Jim sighed.


	40. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian feels as though everything is slipping away from him--his mind, his life, Jim-- and decides to take drastic action. Poor, poor Tiger.

The trip out of the building and the car ride home alike were hazy, and by the time they got there, the chain of events that had brought Sebastian to shooting the client and his bodyguards felt warped and unreal. Jim hadn’t been hurt. Sebastian was also uninjured. But there had been a sound. The client had ducked. His body—a machine finely attuned to violence and danger—had responded as though gunfire had broken out. And yet. And yet. 

Jim was looking wan and wearing a tight-lipped expression as he sank into his favourite seat on the sofa, running a hand back through his hair. The once neatly slicked strands stuck out at odd angles at the back of his head. Sebastian, too tense to sit, too weak to stand, drooped against the wall by the front door. Was it a relief that Jim wasn’t looking at him, or did it make everything that much worse? Something had gone very wrong. More and more Sebastian felt sure that he was the one who had blundered, though he couldn’t point to the moment he had made a mistake. The silence dragged on for what felt like five minutes and at last Sebastian couldn’t stand it any longer. He managed to dredge up some words from the few corners of his mind that hadn’t been ransacked by panic or uneasy fog.

“What happened? Do you know?” Jim looked at him, face suddenly relaxed and blank as a corpse’s. His eyes were dark and flat. Doll’s eyes. The effect was discomforting. Sebastian turned his head away. 

“The water bottle, Sebastian. He dropped his water bottle when he was playing with it. Then he went to get it.” Oh. Whatever energy which had been left in his limbs drained away, and Sebastian slid to the floor rubbing his forehead. So he had misjudged a situation. Deeply. Utterly. Turned a water bottle dropping into a gunshot and a man going to fetch it into a man diving for cover. Not good. Jim echoed his thoughts, “You have a serious problem, Tiger.” Sebastian wished he could brush him off, but he had killed three people and endangered Jim over nothing. He couldn’t look at Jim, couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything to defend himself. Sebastian just sat there, feeling as though he had been submerged in something cold and viscous, wishing he was anywhere else. “Go take a shower, Sebastian,” Jim said at last. Sebastian’s muscles were very reluctant to obey him. 

Things went just as badly as Sebastian had feared after that. Jim said nothing more to him regarding the incident, but he stopped taking him out to client meetings cold turkey. Sebastian couldn’t bring himself to ask if Jim had stopped having them altogether, or if Jim had picked a ‘common ruffian’ to take his place. His workload in general plummeted. Overnight, he stopped receiving updates for the whole of Jim’s European network, and Sebastian woke up one morning to find a new coffeemaker on the counter, preprogramed to brew a pot at 7:00 every morning. Somehow that felt like even more of a slap in the face than the reduction of work responsibilities; as though Jim was slowly dissecting Sebastian out of his home life too. Preparing for his imminent departure, probably. He still had his usual sniping jobs, but those had never been very frequent to begin with, and now, having grown accustomed to running half of the network and accompanying Jim to multiple meetings a week, his schedule felt very sparse. Sebastian had a lot more free time, but he couldn’t enjoy it. All he wanted to do was down a bottle of whiskey and get into a fight. Maybe break a bone while he was at it. That would probably be the death knell for his relationship with Jim, though, and after living like this, beside him, the thought of going back to how things had been a year ago was worse than death. He just wouldn’t do it. It was intolerable. 

Even with the extra time to rest, his brain still couldn’t seem to run without getting bogged down somewhere. A couple weeks later, Jim had walked into the flat at about nine o’clock at night to find Sebastian sitting on the couch, with Jaws 2 playing on the television, and meandered over, watching the shark breach, its mouth wide. 

“What an inept shot. You can see the hydraulics in the shark’s mouth. Shame. I enjoyed the first one.” Sebastian glanced over at him and grunted. He hadn’t really been watching much of anything. Jim tilted his head, fixing Sebastian with his full attention. “Have you figured out the puzzle I gave you yet, Sebby? You’ve had a while.” Sebastian stared at him, nonplussed. 

“What?”

“With the plane crash and the body in the boot of the car. Have you figured out what happened yet?” Sebastian hadn’t even thought about it in ages. Not since his enormous fuckup, anyway. 

“No. Sorry, Jim.” Jim frowned but didn’t press the matter any further. It was only when Jim ordered pizza that Sebastian realized he hadn’t cooked dinner in a week. So he couldn’t even managed that anymore. Fucked. He was fucked. Completely useless. Any day now Jim was going to fire him, or kick him out, or he would just wake up and find the flat completely cleaned out, with the police banging on the door. He needed to take drastic action. It didn’t matter how despicable he found it. Sebastian texted his father.


	41. The Chat (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian talks to his father, then goes to visit Irene.

‘I changed my mind. I want to help manage Shurridge. –SM’

‘Thank you, Sebastian. I wish you hadn’t been so short-tempered before. –AM’

Sebastian’s temper flared again. It was very tempting to change his mind then and there at the suggestion that his behaviour had been inappropriate. But he needed this. His pride didn’t matter. 

‘I’m sorry. –SM’

‘Oh? –AM’

After the first apology, the second one came almost easily. Like falling back into a rut that had collected topsoil and dead leaves but was still worn deep. Familiar, if not comfortable.

‘I shouldn’t have insulted you without thinking. I should have heard you out and given it serious thought. I was being foolish. –SM’

‘I see. –AM’ 

‘And I’m sorry for the damage I did when I left home. I should have had more respect for you and your property. –SM’

Both were lies and they both knew it, but that wasn’t the point. The point was in the ritual of the apology itself, and in Sebastian surrendering his pride and anger. 

‘Thank you, Sebastian. I forgive you. I need a favour before I surrender Shurridge to your care until my death, when you’ll officially inherit it. I plan to move to the summer home in France, but there are a few things I want to take care of first. I think, considering the connections I have been led to believe you have, you can help me with one of them. –AM’ 

‘Alright. I’m listening. –SM’

‘A colleague of mine, Leopold Cryer, is concerned that someone may have designs on his life. I would much prefer it if he didn’t die. At least, not for the next three months. If you could provide Mr. Cryer with your reassurance that his life is not in immediate danger, I would appreciate it. –AM’

‘I don’t know anything about that. –SM’

‘You’re a resourceful man. I’m sure you can figure something out. –AM’

Sebastian stared at the text, willing himself not to feel a pang of pride at the compliment. He was being used, that was all. Manipulated. But it didn’t matter. Sir Moran had always been so withholding of praise that something deep inside Sebastian’s chest was glowing anyway. It took him a minute to respond. 

‘Consider it done. –SM’

‘Thank you, Sebastian. I have confidence in you. Let me know. –AM’

Except Sebastian really didn’t have any idea how to go about determining if Leopold Cryer had any reason for concern. That was Jim’s purview, not his own, and he couldn’t ask Jim for a favour. Not now, when his position was already so tenuous. A Google search for the name revealed little, and a search for the name in conjunction with his father’s name revealed even less. How was he supposed to investigate someone if he didn’t even know who they were? A colleague, his father had said, but Sebastian had no idea what his father had been getting up to this past decade either, and he knew better that to think that Googling him would turn up even a quarter of it. Asking Sherlock was out of the question, though the thought conjured up an image of Jim’s livid face. Which left Irene Adler. The more Sebastian considered it, the better the idea seemed. She was a trusted source of information and yet worked outside of the network. Cleverer than him, with more resources than him. And if she wanted money, he had it. His cost of living was very low. Between that and his generous paycheque, Sebastian had squirreled away a decent amount of cash. He could make an appointment with her through her website, and then after that, he would just need to watch himself. Refuse to be distracted. 

Jim’s trip to the Baltics a week later gave Sebastian the opportunity he needed. And, wearing the charcoal suit, he took the underground to Belgravia and walked the rest of the way to Number 44 Eaton Square. He was shown in by a pale, pretty woman with auburn hair, who he couldn’t fight the feeling was laughing at him, though he didn’t know why. Without Jim at his side, Sebastian felt awkward in the suit, and while he had grown up in equally posh accommodations, and Jim’s flat on Davies Street was not cheap, the grandeur of the townhouse also cowed him. Everything in the sitting room was so white and clean. Crystal and tall windows. High ceilings and plush fabrics. He fussed with the cuffs of his suit jacket and tried to look bored instead of ill at ease. 

“He must trust you,” A refined voice floated in from the entryway a second before the woman he recognized from her website as Irene Adler walked into the room, wearing a pair of stilettos that made her a near perfect match for Jim in height --‘Louboutin, you uncultured swine’—and a slinky black dress. With her up-do of dark, glossy hair, and the sharpness of her eyes, she could have been a female, British incarnation of Jim himself, which unnerved him even more. Her eyes were blue instead of blackish brown, but if he squinted… “He never lets me play with his toys. Oooh. I can see why he likes you. Such a nice, strong jaw. And those shoulders! He must love those. He took such care to get a suit tailored to fit you properly. Of course, he would.” 

She could only be talking about Jim, but Sebastian’s head was spinning. He hadn’t realised that Jim and Irene were at all in each other’s confidence. But no. It couldn’t be. Jim didn’t have any friends. Sebastian had seen enough of Jim’s life to guess at how socially barren it was. No. He had known Irene was clever. She could do the same deductive tricks as Jim or Sherlock. That was all. “Don’t look so grey, Sebastian. I was paying you a compliment. I’ve been hoping to get to meet you for ages, you know. I wanted to meet Jim’s clever pet.” With some effort, Sebastian pasted something like a smile on his face. There was no reason his heart should be beating quite this fast. 

“I didn’t know Jim talked about me to you,” Sebastian said at last. 

“Oh, he doesn’t much. But he’s mentioned you. And I catch bits and pieces. You’ve been a very busy man over the last year or so, haven’t you?” Irene’s eyes were scanning his face with the canniness of a magpie looking for a glint of something in the flotsam. 

“I guess so.” 

“His clever, loyal boy,” Sebastian’s stomach twisted and he opened his mouth, feeling his ears go hot, but before he could think of anything to say, Irene cut him off, “Oh, you’re adorable. It’s a shame you’re not my type or we could have so much fun together and Jim wouldn’t mind so much. I hope he’s gentle with you. I’m bet you only need the lightest touch.” Sebastian drew himself up, averting his eyes from Irene’s coquettish smile.

“I wasn’t here to talk about Jim. I wanted information.” Irene’s expression grew a bit graver.

“You wanted information. It’s something personal, then. Not for Jim?” 

“It is for Jim, in a roundabout way.”

“Surprise present?”

“In a way.”

“You’re worried,” Irene was all levity again as she crossed the room to the armchair beside the couch and perched herself in it, watching him, “Want me to distract you?”

“No, thanks.” Despite his best efforts at stoicism, Sebastian could feel himself growing flustered. He’d been on edge for ages and Irene had all of Jim’s talent for reading him. Even more startling, since she had walked into the room all of a minute ago. ‘It’s what she does’ Jim’s voice breathed into his mind. He shook it off. Irene was talking again. 

“Too bad. I bet your tolerance for pain is massive. But I’m sure he would notice any new bruises... Alright. No games. What do you want?”

“A man named Leopold Cryer, an acquaintance of Sir Augustus Moran, is worried that he’s going to be murdered sometime soon. I wanted to know if there was any basis to those fears, and if so, where the danger was coming from. Do you have a fee, or—“ Irene’s eyes were sparkling.

“Oh, I do have a fee. But Jim is a loyal customer, and this has been such a treat. Just tell him to keep a close watch on you or someone might try to steal you away. I’ll text you on the number you gave me through the website. Is that alright?” Feeling relieved, Sebastian got to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket.

“That’s great. Thank you. The sooner the better.”

“That’s usually how it works. It shouldn’t take long at all. It was nice meeting you, Sebastian. Kate will show you out.” The red-haired woman who had let him in had reappeared at the entrance to the sitting room, and Sebastian nodded to Irene. 

“It was nice meeting you, Ms. Adler.” 

“And such manners!” Irene crooned, “But I go by ‘Miss’.” 

“Sorry. It was nice meeting you, Miss Adler.” And Kate, still smiling that private smile, ushered him back out into the entryway and opened the door for him. He left feeling very lucky that Irene hadn’t tried to get any information out of him. At least, any more than she had gotten as it was.


	42. Callback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian executes part one of his plan to prove to Jim he's not a burden.

The meeting with Miss Adler had only done a little to soothe his nerves. Sebastian still felt uneasy. In a week, Jim would come back from the Baltics, and Sebastian saw no reason for him to delay sacking him any longer than that. The clock was ticking, and he was helpless to stop it. The gym had lost all appeal. The nausea squeezing his stomach and weakening his limbs wasn’t conducive to exercise. It wasn’t conducive to much of anything else either. Food was tasteless and difficult to force down as paper, and Sebastian spent an hour trying to sleep before giving up: spreading himself out on the sofa and slipping into a vegetative daze watching two full series of The Army Game. What the hell Jim had done with the sleeping pills, Sebastian still couldn’t figure out, but the medicine cupboard was picked clean. A shitty situation in every regard except one: it took Irene less than forty-eight hours to get back to him. 

‘This is a fun little game Jim is playing with you, isn’t it? Does he know you’re asking me, instead of figuring it out yourself? –IA’

‘I’m guessing Cryer is in danger? –SM’

‘Would you like me to tell you why? –IA’

‘Yes. –SM’

‘Just yes? That’s not very polite. Should I tell Jim that you were being rude when I was doing you a favour? -IA’

Sebastian recalled sharp and bright a pain he had felt months ago, kneeling at Jim’s feet having made a very stupid mistake. ‘I’ve heard better.’ That breezy, sing-song tone. She was playing with him. No wonder Jim seemed fonder of her than nearly anyone. They had the same posh sense of style and everything. Maybe they’d met at some Alexander McQueen fashion show, and just stumbled across their intersecting careers. It might have been funny in other circumstances. Now, though.

‘Could you please tell me, Miss Adler? –SM’

‘Much better. Tell your friend Leo not to go to the business dinner he has scheduled for this Friday, whatever the consequences of missing it are. If I were him, I’d leave the country sometime around midday Friday. Travel for a while. A few months will do. Tell him to be spontaneous.–IA’

A primal gush of relief swamped Sebastian, and he sagged back against the sofa. That was good, concrete information. Definitely good enough to satisfy his father. 

‘Thank you very much. –SM’

‘Tell me if you win your little game. I hope you do. What are the stakes? –IA’

‘Have a nice day, Miss Adler. –SM’

‘Spoil sport. Have fun. –IA’

His hands were trembling as he pulled up the last text conversation he’d had with his father, and wrote a new message. His father was more devil than man, but he honoured a deal. This would solve everything. Sebastian would show Jim that he was more than deadweight, and if Jim wanted him gone anyway he’d have somewhere to go. Assuming Jim afforded the privilege of living after his employment had ended, which was dubious. But maybe he’d accrued that much goodwill, even if everything was going to shit now.

Leopold Cryer is in danger. He should not attend his business dinner this Friday. He should leave the country on Friday instead, and stay away from the UK for the next few months, moving unpredictably instead. –SM’

‘You were very prompt. Impressive. I was right to trust you. Thank you. Now that’s cleared away, polishing the rest of my business should be within my abilities. –AM’

And there it was again, that traitorous burst of pride ballooning in his chest. Of course his father had been right to trust him. He’d been capable of making himself useful for a long time, and despite his mistake in than damned top-floor conference room, he could still do something for his father, even as he lost his utility to Jim. No. That was wrong. Sebastian ground his knuckles into his temple, trying to banish the rebellious thought. That wasn’t the point. He was winning Jim over. Sir Moran could fuck off to France without a backwards glance as soon as he surrendered Shurridge to his care. Good riddance. But he couldn’t act that way or say as much without risking everything.

‘Of course. I was wondering, when could I return to Shurridge? I would like to take a look around the place. –SM’

‘Whenever is convenient. I don’t live there regularly, so the cleaners and gardeners are the only regular visitors. –AM’

It had to be soon. Knowing Jim, if he breathed a word about firing Sebastian, pride would demand he go through with it, no matter what Sebastian said afterward. 

‘As soon as possible. –SM’

‘Would Wednesday be acceptable? –AM’

‘Yes. –SM’

The manor house and its grounds, which had loomed dark and imposing in his memories, was diminished. It was still grand with its parapets and broad stone face pierced with two dozen windows and its stately gardens—the topiaries stupidly fussy. But as the taxi passed through the gatehouse, the hush that used to fall over Sebastian like a pall every time he stepped onto the property, like he was approaching someone’s deathbed, failed to descend. Maybe Sebastian had outgrown that sort of ghost story chill. Or, maybe what he had been afraid of as a child wasn’t waiting for him anymore. He had other things to worry about now. 

His father was standing at the head of the drive to meet him in a slender-cut suit that Jim would probably approve of. Either Sebastian’s mind had magnified Sir Moran too, or else he had shrunk in his old age. He looked nothing like the cold pillar of a man that dominated Sebastian’s childhood. His blond hair had gone grey. He’d never been built with the same broad-shouldered durability as Sebastian, but now the frailty of his bones showed through his translucent skin. His blue eyes were still sharp, still calculating, but after being subjected to the sear of Jim’s full attention, and after everything else that had happened in his life between now and the last time he had looked his father in the face, they couldn’t burn him anymore. 

Sebastian slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out of the car, waving off the driver. The wheels growled away on the gravel behind him as he closed the distance to Sir Moran, who smiled: formal, polite, but nothing more. Probably. Two inches shorter than him now, he noted as he accepted his father’s hand to shake. It would be so easy to break his wrist. He could just lever his fingers back and twist, and put him on his knees. Apply tension until the bone snapped. His father’s voice roused him.

“Sebastian. Good to see you again. You’ve gotten taller.”

He’d never imagined this meeting. Sebastian had always assumed he’d seen the last of Sir Moran. At least, while he was alive. He had no script. No preparation. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now the handshake had been broken. Sebastian stuffed them into his trouser pockets. 

“Eighteen-year-olds tend to, before they hit thirty.”

“I suppose they do. The trip was smooth?”

“Yes.” 

“Good. Let’s get to business, then. Please, come in.” It smelled just like it had always smelled, even if it didn’t feel like same; like wood stain, cleaning product, and something faintly sweet and musty that was probably ancient wallpaper glue. The place was dark, spotless and stuffy. Not a single dust mote dancing in the beam of watery sunlight that slid in past the brocade curtains. 

“Upkeep has been a nightmare,” Sir Moran said as he swept through the entryway en route to the den, shoes loud on the creaking floors. Annoying. Jim, despite his insistence that Sebastian dress well, had at least picked shoes with tactical soles. Nothing slippery. Quieter on the floorboards. “The roof had to be reshingled. The parapets restored. Extensive rewiring. I had the library repapered. But there’s still work that should be done. I’ve made a list. I’ve kept a record of the help I hired and their performance. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage it. I’m assuming, considering… everything, that you’ll be able to fund the continued renovations?” 

Sebastian opened his mouth, weighing his response. His own savings account was fuller than it had been by a lot, but he wasn’t rich enough to fund this sort of endeavour. He also didn’t want to be indebted to his father. Jim had more than enough money, but Shurridge Manor would seem like less of a present if it came with a price tag. Sir Moran’s gaze narrowed before Sebastian could sculpt a satisfactory reply, “If not, I’d be happy to lend you some money,” Maybe he’d die before he ever collected on the debt. It was like he had read this thoughts, “Give you some, I mean. Old habits are difficult to kill. I don’t imagine I’m going to be around long enough for my loans to accrue much interest. And you are doing me a favour. I can’t leave the house to moulder.” Sebastian dug his fingernails into his palm in an effort to suppress the sudden burst of gratitude he felt. 

“I would appreciate that.” 

They stepped into the warm dark of the den, and Sir Moran settled himself at a table where a laptop sat open. Sebastian stood, studying the ugly oil painting that hung over the fireplace. It was of some ugly old great-great uncle, or something. He’d been told his name ages ago. He didn’t care enough to remember. 

“Please, sit.” Sebastian turned and pulled out a chair opposite his father’s, sitting down. “If you could just give me a bit of information, I can transfer the money.” A couple minutes passed in near silence as Sir Moran worked on wiring the money to Sebastian’s account. At last he pushed back his laptop an inch, and his pale eyes fixed on Sebastian’s. “You did good work, helping me with Cryer.” He had been given that compliment once already. The second time had less of an impact. Or else, maybe his efforts at quashing his pride had finally worked. 

“Thank you, sir.” It just scraped out from between his teeth before he could bite it back. Fucking hell. What the fuck was that? Sir Moran gave him a brief, searching look. Sebastian wanted to take it back, but there was no way to do it without bringing more attention to his slip.

“I hope you perform just as well this time. I’ve emailed you the file of the various… tradesmen and contractors that I’ve used in the past, as well as the list of renovations that need to be completed. You should have enough money to see everything done. If I require anything else I’ll be in contact, but I doubt I will, and I also doubt you’ll have questions, so I doubt we’ll see each other again soon.” He smiled. Cool and composed, and rose to his feet, putting his laptop into a cross-body bag and slinging it across himself before checking his phone. “My car will be here soon. Best of luck, Sebastian.”


	43. Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the shit hits the fan.

The fact of the matter was, for all the strings he tugged and all the data he kept track of, Jim had never fancied himself a particularly good babysitter. There was a vast difference between knowing how long a given volume of oxygen could sustain the average man or woman or the half-life of a given poison in soil and knowing how to take care of people. Crimes were intricate puzzles begging to be pieced together. People were messy; easy to break but difficult to fix, and so very little like software systems or ciphers. Jim could solve a cipher or hack a software system, but he didn’t know what to do with Sebastian Moran, who seemed in desperate need of a repair. 

Sipping beer in the corner of a restaurant near his hotel in Riga, which was quiet for a Friday night, and thumbing through the Lonely Planet guide to Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania without actually reading any of it, Jim considered the problem waiting for him back in London. He had wrapped up business ages ago, though even that had been more of an excuse to leave the flat for a week or two than anything else. He didn’t need to see people to do his job, and didn’t need them to see him. Sebastian must be aware of that, though. And, given how well Sebastian knew him, he likely also knew that Jim was stalling for time. Though, Jim had yet to decide if he were actually stalling yet or not. 

He had thought that being taken on extra missions; being made a confidant, sharing days with him and serving as the implicitly trusted first line of defence would be a treat for Sebastian. The extra element of control and awareness should have made Sebastian happier and less anxious. That’s what the idea had been, going to all of those stupid in-person meetings, but apparently it had been an enormous waste of time on all counts. The extra pressure had done nothing to temper Sebastian. Instead it had cracked him. So maybe leaving him be, to rest as much as he wanted alone and unjudged in a comfortable, quiet flat, would be able to repair the damage that spending too much time at Jim’s side had caused. Or, maybe he’d be forced to take more drastic action. 

As much as he usually enjoyed outsourcing, the thought of securing a safe psychologist for Sebastian was not one Jim relished. It sounded dramatic, even in his mind, to think that it would be encroaching on his territory, but Sebastian’s confidence had been his exclusive domain for almost a year, and the idea of giving up that exclusivity was distasteful. Sebastian himself probably wouldn’t be interested. In many respects he was a private person. Who was to say that he wouldn’t view Jim offering him a therapist as a jab at his competence? But then again, Jim hadn’t felt safe leaving his medicine cabinet stocked. He trusted Sebastian not to disobey his orders in regards to alcohol, but Jim had never drawn a fine line on sleeping pills or painkillers. This couldn’t be allowed to continue. 

His phone buzzed. 

Jim took a long swig of his beer, letting the bitterness linger on his tongue before he swallowed and reached into his pocket to retrieve the mobile. He hadn’t heard a word from Sebastian yet, so some part of him had expected this: his Tiger wondering when he would be coming home. Maybe Sebastian, like himself, found the quiet of the flat unbearable after a few days, had grown bored of watching those stupid movies of his, and was missing him. But it was not Sebastian’s name that appeared on his mobile as he turned on the screen. Instead, it was Irene’s. Curious, he opened the text. 

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything. –IA’

‘Not at all. What is it? –JM’

‘Oh? I would have thought you would be busy. Did he win? –IA’

Strange for her to be asking about Sherlock out of nowhere. But barring the gender, he was her type. Irene always had a weakness for the soft, clever ones, so it was completely understandable for her to develop a little bit of a soft spot. Jim could sympathize with that, even if he tried not to indulge. 

‘We haven’t played our final game yet. –JM’

‘I don’t understand how you can be so patient. If I were in your shoes, I’d tear into him like a child with a Christmas present. –IA’

‘I want to savour it. I want him to savour it. The time before the storm breaks. –JM’

‘Mysterious. –IA  
I helped him. Hope you don’t mind. I assumed that wasn’t against the rules. –IA’

The final game was not afoot to cheat on, but even if it was, why in the world would Sherlock run to Irene for help? Sherlock was proud and brittle-minded. He would not want to admit intellectual inferiority in any regard. He would not want to admit he didn’t know. He would not go to Irene Adler, a person who specialized in stripping away pride and power, for advice. There was not a chance in the world. But the only other person who Irene could be referring to had been left alone with intentionally little to do, and a puzzle he had expressed little interest in but had been banned from seeking help on anyway. His thumb hovered inches above the phone, considering whether to open the long-ignored application that would allow him to read through Sebastian’s texts as though they were his own. Jim had made the decision when he elected to put Sebastian in control of much of the network that he could be permitted some secrets. He had earned that trust, that rare degree of privacy, because of what had transpired in the aftermath of that meeting with Sherlock. Now, though, lead was stealing into his bloodstream measure by measure.

‘I understand why you like him. I’m not overly fond of scars, but they suit him. –IA’

‘How did you help him? –JM’

‘Saving Leopold Cryer from you. Is he fond of his father, then? -IA

Jim left the restaurant. Behind him, one of the waiters was screaming in Latvian, which Jim was fluent in, though he couldn’t understand a word he was saying. His hand was bleeding from the broken pint glass, but it didn’t hurt in the slightest. It was a shame about the porter on his crisp, linen shirt; a shame about the blood; a shame about the Lonely Planet guide to Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania now floating, sodden, in the Daugava; and it was certainly a shame that Sebastian had betrayed him.


End file.
